Verbus Ad Verbera
by SaintAugustana
Summary: Eisley decides to pursue an activity she knows Carlisle wouldn't approve of. Warning: corporal punishment/cp/spanking.
1. Vampire, at Your Service

Latin: _"From Words to Actions"_

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_The boxer must somehow learn, but what effort of will non-boxers surely cannot guess, to inhibit his own instinct for survival; he must learn to exert his will over his merely human and animal impulses, not only to flee pain, but to flee the unknown. Boxing is a sport in which blood becomes quickly irrelevant. - _Joyce Carol Bates, On Boxing

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On the surface Eisley's assimilation into my little family coven might have seemed to be evolving nicely. She hunted with Edward and Emmett, she watched TV with Rosalie, she allowed Alice's excessive attempts to become friends, tolerated losing to Jasper at chess, even helped Nessie (who would soon be around her age, physically) clean her bedroom, and she was, all-in-all, a well-behaved child who didn't give Esme or myself any trouble.

But when you've been alive for as long as I have, and you've been a doctor for as long as I have, you come to understand the behavior patterns of children. I am no pediatrician by any means, but enough screaming, tantrum-throwing, and even polite-but-stressed kids had been shuffled through my emergency room for me to know that _children_, by definition, are impressionable packages of spontaneity, prone to mischief, and quick to smile and laugh and be joyous. Even my foster children, especially Edward and Emmett, had their puerile moments. Edward became a little better behaved after marrying Bella and settling down in the cottage with her and Renesmee, but like I said, he had his moments. His motormouth got him most of the time: whether it be in some petty argument with Rosalie or slip-of-tongue backtalk at Esme.

Eisley hardly spoke at all, ever, and when she did, it was in respectful response to a question, or to tell me she was turning in for the night. So, beneath the surface, the _assimilation_ was going south, fast. I figured I couldn't have been so romantic as to assume the process would be easy: she'd been through enough trauma to cover the rest of eternity, the same eternity she was going to have to live, day-to-day, with the weight of her brother's death on her shoulders, the flight from the Volturi, and the pain of becoming what she was, a vampire. And it wasn't that she was _miserable_ – she appeared content enough, but still, something under her surface was eating away at her pleasant thoughts.

I watched my new daughter carefully, memorizing her daily routine in an effort to find a hole, a way I might be able to help her bond with the rest of the family. I wasn't pushy. Just concerned. Typically, Eisley awoke around six or seven AM for school. Esme or I would drive her, and when school let out at three, she would bring herself home on foot. She did her homework in the kitchen, and in the few hours left before she went to bed around nine or ten, she buried herself in books, capitalizing on her ability to remember every bit of information she learned, Hamlet dozing beneath the legs of her chair. She was about halfway through the biggest shelf of thick hardbacks in my study.

I was nearly ready to give up on finding the hole when a gleeful Alice predicted a massive thunderstorm rolling in from the North, to be casting its gloomy shadow over Forks this Saturday. Perfect baseball weather, and our first game as a full nine-person team. (Not that it mattered – we just played against each other, anyway.)

Early that weekend afternoon, we headed to our clearing, dressed in our individual variations of gray jerseys and blue-t-shirts. Renesmee squealed happily, running to grab a ball. She, like her father, was very fast on her feet. Esme and I made our team picks. I glanced around for Eisley, but she trailed behind, baseball bat swung over her shoulders, a hand gripping each end of the polished wood, her gaze on Nessie, Hamlet trotting alongside. She looked almost..._longing, _giving me the distinct, familiar impression she was a mite jealous of the other child, which made sense on most levels.

"Eisley?"

Her perpetually green eyes met mine. "Yes, sir?"

I had told her a thousand times not to call me that, but I let it slide.

"Wanna bat first?"

"No, that's okay," she pulled the wooden Louisville Slugger away from her shoulders, just as Edward paced over.

"Maybe she should just watch, Carlisle," he grinned. "Learn a few things about the game."

I caught the tiniest hint of smugness in this suggestion, but shrugged it off. Edward took the bat from Eisley, who ducked her head uncomfortably and let it slide from her grasp.

"Hey, Eisley!" Rosalie called harshly before I could get a word in. Eisley's head snapped up. "Bring me my hat."

She bent over, digging in the duffel bag for the cover, and, with a final, faint smile tossed in my direction, walked past me toward Rosalie.

Her subservience to her brothers and sisters was beginning to get out of hand. She needed to be aware that she was their equal, not their valet.

I sighed.

Alice pitched a wonderful inning – even almost striking out both Jasper and Emmett, who both got their home runs in on the last throw. Edward played exceptionally, as always. No baseball ever _touched_ the umpire's hands when he was at home plate. The thunder kept up long enough for us to play ten innings. Even Nessie scored a few home runs.

Eisley hovered behind Bella, our umpire, most of the time. I was delighted to see she was watching the ball with a look of fascination plastered across her face, enjoying the game from the sidelines. Eventually, maybe she would play, but this afternoon, at least, she appeared more content than she had in a long time.

She stood still, a thin smile on her face, as if she were witnessing something truly monumental, what was to us a simple, silly baseball game.


	2. Dr Cullen's Boxing Tale

When it was over, Emmett, Rosalie, and Alice ran off into the woods to hunt, while Edward and Bella took Nessie back to the cottage for a nap. Esme and I gathered the bats and bases and loaded them into the duffels.

"Good game, Carlisle," my lovely wife congratulated.

"Likewise, Esme," I responded, kissing her lightly on the lips. I bent down the grab the bags. "Ready to go?"

She didn't answer. I straightened up, and caught her gazing sentimentally over my shoulder. My eyes followed her trajectory of vision, all the way down to centerfield, where Eisley stood, twirling a dirt-stained baseball between her fingers.

I exhaled gently.

"I'll be at home," Esme chimed, taking the bags from my hands and shoving them into the backseat of Emmett's Jeep.

"What are you so happy about?" I reprimanded teasingly, realizing her ploy to get me and Eisley some bonding time. I didn't regret it, though, and Esme knew that.

She kissed me again before climbing into the driver's seat.

I watched her go, before pivoting and pacing down the clearing.

Eisley had a one-man game of catch going, tossing the ball lightly above her head and letting it land gingerly in her hands, over and over again.

"Hey, kiddo. Ready to leave?"

Eisley caught the ball and nodded.

I pushed my hands into the pockets of my jeans. "I saw you watching. Did you enjoy the game?"

She grinned sheepishly. "It was cool. Edward's really fast, and Alice is a great pitcher."

"What – no comments on _my_ excellent form?" I pressed a fist to my heart as if struck.

She giggled. "You were _okay_," she drawled. "I _guess_."

"Oh you do, do you?" I laughed, tickling her sides, eliciting more yips as she squirmed out of my grasp and stumbled back a few feet. A frown creased her face, and she gazed at the ball in her hands, running cool fingers over the worn leather and faded red stitches.

"Carlisle?" she whispered.

I approached. "Yes, Eisley?"

She turned her gaze upwards. "How come I'm not as strong as Alice or as fast as Edward? I thought that was a vampire thing."

I crouched down so that I could speak to her at her level.

"You're still young. It takes practice to develop those abilities."

She snorted. "I think we both know I'm a lot weaker than either of us are admitting."

There was truth in that, though I would have never pointed it out. At thirteen (however indefinitely) she was still smaller than average for girls her age, and certainly thinner than was normal, which I attributed to her short life on the streets. As far as build went, she was naturally lithe and lightly framed. That, combined with her lack of muscle development, made her _weak_, by definition, but as I said, I would have never pointed it out.

I pondered the predicament for a minute, furrowing my brow. Eisley cocked her head.

"Walk with me."

Typically, if a vampire can run a distance, there would be no argument for walking it. The action wasn't uncomfortable by any means, just unusual. However, masquerading as a normal, American family in a normal, American town involved a lot it, so we'd all had our fair share. Now that the older kids were all graduated from high school they did so _less_ now, but as a doctor I spent all day walking up and down the emergency room and hallways of the hospital.

Most importantly, Eisley didn't mind, and it gave me enough time to tell her a story.

"Back in 1942," I began, as we fell into step beside each other and headed off through the forest, "I was a doctor working in a small, Louisiana hospital. One night, just before the graveyard shift began, a young boxer checked into the emergency room. He was probably around my age, and I treated him for a black eye, some swelling, and a couple broken ribs."

Eisley listened intently, stepping over a fallen log as we passed it.

"While I patched him up we got to talking – mostly space-filling conversation at the beginning, but then he got onto the subject of boxing. He gave me his life story, the abridged version, about how he had grown up in a rough neighborhood and got into the sport as a kid to try and become bigger and stronger like his brothers. He had _lots _of older brothers."

Placing emphasis on the word wasn't really necessary. Eisley was intelligent enough to pick up on the subtle parallels.

"Anyway, he had told me that he wouldn't be able to pay for the hospital service. I told him I'd take care of it, and he was grateful enough that he offered to buy me a drink sometime that week. Over time and more conversations, we became closer and eventually developed a friendship. Occasionally, we would box together on the weeknights – he wanted to show me his moves. Said that, one day, he'd be bigname material."

"What happened?" she whispered.

"Well, he went professional a few years later – signed with some talent scouts that blew through Baton Rouge. Before he left Louisiana, he gave me his amateur boxing gear, said I should keep working on my left hook."

"Wow," she breathed. "Were you any good?"

"I was _okay_," I smiled, repeating Eisley's earlier teasing insult.

She failed to conceal her smile.


	3. The Breakthrough

When we arrived home, I led Eisley down to the garage, behind the row of cars, toward the trapdoor that led down a ladder to the basement. She seemed hesitant, but followed me down the wooden steps.

I flicked the light on, revealing a small, gray-bricked room. A few storage crates sat slumped against the west wall, and a set of aluminum-colored lockers lined the opposite side. These housed the boys' sports equipment. In the corner, a punching bag hung from the low ceiling by a set of chains, rotating gently. It's white, canvas exterior possessed more patches than original fabric. I gave it a decent punch and a spray of dust exploded over the depressed spot.

Eisley coughed, but stepped forward tentatively, running her hands over the strong fabric, allowing her fingers to navigate their way along the seams, pure awe in her movements. Her expression was melancholy. Appreciative, but solemn for a reason I had yet to pinpoint.

I broke the ice again.

"Edward and Emmett used to practice on it, but Emmett knocked it out of the ceiling so many times I had to get him a pass to the Port Angeles Fitness Center so he could beat _their_ equipment into submission. Edward's still down here sometimes, but judging by the dust, I'd say he's abandoned it."

"And Jasper?" She whispered.

"He's had years of experience in hand-to-hand," I mused. "Never really took an interest. Here-"

I turned on my heels and popped one of the locker doors, rummaging for a tin container. I found it, and yanked the lid free, extending a roll of gauze to the patient child.

"Boxing wrap tape. They use it soften the effect of the blows on their knuckles and keep their hands from sweating too much in the gloves. I don't have the gloves, though – you won't be needing them."

She took the roll, smoothing her fingers over its calloused surface.

"Can you teach me?"

There it was. The breakthrough. I wasn't letting that one get away from me.

"Hmmm." I drew out the syllables, gauging her reaction. Her eyes glistened with excitement, and I couldn't help but think of a pitiful puppy begging for a head scratch. "I could probably give you a few pointers."

This time, the smile was unmistakable, and completely sincere.

"I'll tell you what – I leave the hospital early on Fridays. I can be home around six and we can do a lesson for a couple hours every week. Sound good?"

"Can I practice when you're not here?"

"As long as Esme's home, and she knows you're down here."

"Thanks, Carlisle."

"My pleasure, Eisley." I gratefully accepted the hug she offered, extending my arms wide and holding her close. That was new. "You know," I rested my chin on her head, "Edward could probably help you out, too."

She withdrew from the embrace, rolling her shoulders as if to shrug off some invisible weight. "I don't think I should bother him," she whispered, placing the boxing tape on a small steel table behind the bag.

"You want me to ask him?"

"No, that's okay," she responded nervously, a hair louder than necessary.

"Alright," I stood up, already pondering this new development.

Our lessons progressed as scheduled. What little I knew about the technical aspect of boxing Eisley was able to teach _me_, oddly. She'd perused the school library's sports section on-and-off between practices. What little _she_ knew about the physical part I was able to demonstrate, and she caught on rather quickly, mastering beginner fighting styles and moving up through Intermediate to what I considered Advanced in a matter of weeks, and I was pleasantly surprised with her rapid ascension. After only a month her footwork was excellent, and we had moved to light sparring with each other on the mat spread out on the concrete, basement floor. She floored me more than once.

One evening, Edward ventured down into the basement while she worked on the bags, me supervising.

"What's going on?"

I looked up. "Hello, Edward. Eisley's just going a few solo rounds." In my peripheral vision, I noticed her punch missing the the target, the corner of her mouth twitching uncomfortably.

"Is that the same bag I used to practice on?" He dipped his chin in subtle gesture.

"Yeah – hey, would you mind hanging out here for a minute? I need to speak to your mother." I was doing my best not to _think_ about anything regarding the nagging feeling of trouble brewing between these two.

"Sure," he agreed, his tone levelly interested. I vacated my stool, wiped my brow with a sweat rag, and breezed up the stairs.


	4. Burning Sensations

Edward leaned away, giving Carlisle room to get up the stairs, and hung back in the shadows for a moment, watching Eisley knead the bag with her wrapped knuckles. As the silence penetrated the confined space, the degree of awkwardness began to swell. Eisley slowed her punches, eventually stopping altogether, and placed a hand on either side of the canvas bag to steady it. She did not meet Edward's piercing golden eyes, which glowed in the dim lighting. She struggled against the thought that she was cornered in the tiny basement.

Eisley's relationship with her foster brothers was strained, at best. A combination of age difference, untimely entrance into the coven, and general envy of each other's place in the family made for rough sailing. Jasper had always kept to himself, and having a new sibling didn't seem to phase him. Emmett cracked jokes, as always, but didn't go out of his way to be friendly. Edward was casually caustic about the whole situation, and especially touchy about Carlisle's new _favorite_. His ego (which had softened sizeably since meeting Bella and having a daughter) seemed to inflate when he and Eisley existed in each other's presence, and he made this very clear. Though he would never physically harm his foster sister, he wasn't above verbal patronization.

"I used to box down here," he drawled easily, stepping into the sphere of yellow light cast by the single bulb that swung from the ceiling. He circled the bag, which Eisley leaned against, head down. "I knocked this thing from the ceiling more times than I can count."

His inflection bore no tone of sincerity, except that in his honest bragging. Eisley remained silent.

"I could teach you a few things, if you like." He came to a pause about a foot in front of the girl, who just shook her head in the negative.

"Suit yourself." He moved away toward the lockers, pulling out another length of tape and wrapping it around his pale fingers. "Hey, if you're done, I'd like to have a go. Brings back memories," he sighed dramatically.

"I'm done," Eisley returned, her voice low.

"Cool, hey-" he pointed at her, "could you get me a clean towel? This'll be a workout."

Eisley's expression did not betray her inner turmoil. With daggers in her eyes, she paced backwards toward the far wall, and pulled a fresh rag from the shelf.

"Thanks," he winked.

Treading lightly, Eisley retreated up the stairs, just as Edward's punches began to make dents in the canvas, the unmistakable thuds echoing in the basement.

---

_**Carlisle POV**_

__"Done already?"

I was just heading back down to the garage when Eisley slipped past me halfway down the stairwell, peeling boxing tape from her pale fingers in a hurried fashion. She didn't seem to notice me, busy with her frantic movements.

"Eisley?" I called, lowering the glass of water in my hands.

She halted a few steps above me. "Yeah? Oh – yeah, I uhm... Edward wanted a go. Uh..." she glanced anxiously toward the foyer. "I've got a big test to study for, anyway."

"Okay," I replied, but not in time for her to hear me before she disappeared up the stairs.

**Three Weeks Later**

"You fight like a girl."

"Shut up before you choke on your mouthpiece."

"You sure you can box and talk at the same time? I don't want you to hurt yourself."

"Why, you-"

Laughing, Eisley ducked her opponent's punch and slammed her glove into his chest. He crumpled, groaning. Eisley bounced from foot to foot victoriously. "Ready to quit?"

Reuben glanced up painfully, pulling on his wriststraps with pearly white teeth. "You wait until tomorrow, Eisley," he muttered. She grinned, removing her own gloves and wrapping a sweaty, taped hand around his bicep, yanking him to a standing position. They pumped fists, though he was less happy about it. "You're getting better," he offered sarcastically.

"I learned from the best." Eisley responded with a slight bow. Reuben scowled lightly, but couldn't deny he appreciated that comment. He removed his headgear, carding tan fingers through his jet-black hair, sticking up wildly with sweat and helmet musk.

Eisley wound through the practice rings to the lockers, reached beneath the frigid sea of ice and pulled two bottles - a lime sports drink, and a powerful cherry energy soda - from the blue cooler sitting atop a row of metal benches, next to other members of the Olympian Boxing gym, which was a small, family-friendly arena founded mom-and-pop style by an ex-boxer and his wife, open to group lessons and free to those inter-city kids who couldn't afford to pay for it, or just needed someplace to be besides haunting the recessive alleys of Port Angeles. The owner was a firm believer in 'recreational sports for a better life,' and all that pacifistic kid-friendly stuff.

She tossed the green bottle to Reuben, who caught it nimbly. Eisley leaned against the shambling row of lockers and took a grateful chug of the cherry energy drink. Plain sports brew did little to rejuvenate her vampire systems, and heaven knew she needed to stay completely aware, and in control. Boxing was dangerous enough as a physical endeavor, what with the perpetual possibility of being knocked unconscious or, worse, subconsciously using more than justher _human_ strength and accidentally knocking _another _kid unconscious. Even worse, she had a difficult enough time tolerating the smell of so much blood pumping and hearts racing without having to worry about punching a kid's nose so hard it flushed like a faucet of crimson bodily fluid.

Eisley kept beneath the radar, beneath the neckline, going for the low (but not _too_ low) blows, and focusing on footwork, on form, on the basics she learned from Carlisle and his famous boxer mentor. It inhibited her performance only slightly, but slightly enough to keep the instructors and other students thinking she wasn't very good at boxing. It drove her nuts.

_Carlisle_.

Eisley struggled to imagine what he would do if he caught her in a place like this. Boxing behind his back, without his permission. But what choice had she had if she wanted to continue pursuing the sporty passion? Edward had all but _eaten_ the trusty, rotting bag hanging in the basement – she hadn't touched it in weeks, hadn't even gone down to the basement to check and see if the coast was clear, and Edward had made it very clear (by way of a few smug looks and superior attitude) that the territory had been claimed. That was fine by her, perfectly fine.

She tipped the can upwards again, allowing more of the electrified fluid to soothe her burning throat.

"Eisley, what did I say about putting that crap into your _body?_"

Eisley grinned into her chest as Mr. Vick, or just Vick, as his students called him, a cheery, but rough-featured guy. His black hair was elegantly disheveled, his mustache neatly framed by a short beard that covered only his chin. He looked a little like Benjamin Bratt, Eisley had always thought, but Vick didn't see it.

"That the impact of this crash would be nothing compared to what'll happen in the ring if I don't stop drinking it."

"That's right. Have some water or something." _Or something. _Behind him, Reuben smirked. Eisley rolled her eyes, pushing off the lockers and following her friend toward the changing rooms.

"Come on, guys and gals, wrap up your rounds, gotta close up shop..."

-----

"You okay?"

Eisley glanced up, suddenly aware that she had been sitting on the locker room bench for what felt like hours, deep in thought. Her bookbag lay unzipped at her feet. "Yeah," she replied, eying it peculiarly. "Yeah."

"You were good today," Reuben's silhouette disappeared as he shifted into the dim light of the single, yellow bulb flickering above them.

"Thanks," Eisley responded distantly, standing and turning away from him, toward her locker.

"Everybody's gone, I think," he whispered. "Do you need a ride home? My mom's waiting outside."

"No," she coughed. The claustrophobically steamy room was hindering her ability to breathe comfortably. Reuben's blood simmered in his veins, masked only partially by the clean, musky scent of men's deodorant. "I walk home. Thanks, though."

"Don't you live downtown? We drive right through there-"

"Been stalking me, Hoss?"

Reuben laughed. "_Touché."_

Eisley pivoted, leaning back against the brick wall. "Go on home, Reuben. You need all the time you can get."

He raised a skeptical brow. "For what?"

"To prepare for next practice, when you get your butt kicked by a girl. Again."

"We'll see about that, Eisley Monahan," he sneered playfully. "Until then."

A few seconds after he departed, she exhaled, a heavy breath that seemed to deflate more than relieve her. Having never expected to make a friend as great as Reuben, she regretted, every day, that he was entangled in her organized web of lies. No, Lies was too strong a word. More like...exaggerations. Minor omissions of the truth. Yeah, because she hadn't actually _lied_.

In order to keep Carlisle and Esme from her secret boxing, she'd only told Vick she was an orphan (not a lie) who'd been adopted by a foster family (not a lie) with domestic issues (not a lie, entirely. _Domestic Issues_ was such a subjective phrase.) He'd asked no more questions and openly welcomed her to the ring.

Sometimes, keeping her mental walls up confused Eisley's two realities.

She jammed the rickety locker door shut once more and exited through the back doors of the gym.


	5. Backstage Boxing

Eisley had been being extra cautious with her thoughts the past few weeks, especially while she was in 'earshot' of Alice's visions or Edward's telepathic capabilities. Edward was easy enough to avoid, but Alice could be tuned in at any given moment, unlike Edward, who needed to be within close proximity of a person to see their thoughts, and if Eisley was thinking about her illicit boxing, or anything _about _boxing, the secret could be exposed. It was beginning to wear on her focus, not being able to think about and work through a fight mentally before it happened physically, to engage a mental opponent within the safe walls of her brain, plan a combat strategy to repel his moves, his footwork. Alice would pick up on such decisions as she would make them, in almost real time. It was a miracle she hadn't been caught yet.

Still, it was odd for a person of Eisley's reservation and well-behaved demeanor to engage in such a furtive activity. Every day before practice, she tried not to ponder why she was doing it, outside of the obvious. Perhaps because it was easy enough to get away with, or the fun outweighed the guilt she felt. Or both, if she felt bold enough to force her reasoning around two ends of a polar spectrum.

Eisley slowed to a jog as she reached the familiar clearing in the forest, the two-thirds-way point on the run home, and quickly abandoned these troubling thoughts, resolutely deciding that she would do her homework the minute she got home. She glanced at her watch: 5:09 PM.

----

"Can you give me an ETA on Eisley, Alice?" Carlisle inquired as he passed his daughter on the way to the kitchen sink, where he proceeded to rinse out his coffee mug.

"Any second now, though I'm not sure if she's coming through the front door or just going straight to her room..."

"Her room?" Carlisle sighed. Despite seeming less stressed lately, Eisley was still, in all senses of the word, a loner. Whatever brief interest she had in boxing had obviously run dry as the Arizona desert. Edward, however, was enjoying the old hobby, a fair trade, he supposed.

"She's going to do her homework. You should be proud, Carlisle, she's being so responsible. Tomorrow, she'll ace her biology test."

"Of course I'm proud," Carlisle replied with a smile, drying his hands on a dishrag. In the foyer, the front door cracked open and Eisley paced in, depositing her jacket on a hook near the closet.

"Hello, Eisley," Carlisle greeted. "How was the rehearsal?"

"Good," she responded, not a twinge of discomfort in her voice, "But I'm only a stagehand, I don't know about that acting stuff."

"You'd probably be a fine actor," Carlisle mused. Eisley ducked away toward the stairs, suddenly lost for words.

"When's the play?" He called after her.

"Uh, not sure," she replied, licking her lips. "Do you really want to see it? I mean, it's kind of a boring plot."

"Thought you said it looked good."

"It does," she turned back. "For a crappy plot, I mean. I'll uh...I'll let you know."

"Okay," Carlisle chuckled at her incoherence.

Grinning, Eisley retreated up the steps and dashed into her bedroom, closing the door as gently as she could without slamming the jamb too hard. She closed her eyes, wincing. That had been way too close. _From now on, yes or no answers, Eisley. Christ. _Sighing, she pulled her backpack from her shoulders and paced to the bathroom, kicking off her all-stars on the way. Into the wicker hamper she shoved her gloves, handwraps, and towel, before burying them with other laundry. Exhausted, she floated to her desk and plopped down in the chair, pulling her biology book from the shelf.


	6. Fresh Meat

"You're moving?"

Shocked at Reuben's announcement, Eisley failed to dodge his punch, which caught the side of her head and send her toward the not-so-soft floor of the mat.

"Woah, woah, woah, Reuben, good punch," Vick interjected from across the gym, "Eisley, keep your guard up!"

Eisley scowled, getting to her feet.

"Chill, Eis, the new place is just a few miles away. I'll still be here every day after school, count on it. Speaking of which-" he ducked a high blow "-I have to go to a new school. Now _that _sucks." With another combo of jab-jab-uppercut, he floored his opponent again. Eisley groaned, glaring up at his scrutinous expression. "Man, Eisley, you're awful today. If you're this bad now I don't want to see you in the ring this Saturday," Reuben pulled off his gloves. In what was supposed to be easy, light sparring, neither of the partners had worn mouthpieces or headgear.

Eisley took the offered hand and hopped up, removing her gloves as well and shaking her head. _Right, the match. _"Just got a lot on my mind. Sorry."

"No biggie. Hey, when the house is all set up, you can come over and practice on my bag."

Eisley grinned half-heartedly. "Sure, Reuben."

He returned the smile and paced ahead to the bench, taking a seat and rubbing a towel over his sweaty brow.

"I just wish I knew what the school will be like. I hate being the new kid."

"What school is it?" Eisley inquired as she filled a paper cup with water from the cooler.

"Forks Middle School."

She was suddenly grateful she hadn't taken a gulp, because she would have choked on it.

"Forks Middle School," she repeated.

"That's the one. Know anybody there?" He scooted to the cooler to grab his own refreshment. Eisley stepped aside, swallowing hastily. _Crap, crap, crap_. Of course she did, she _went_ there. But she couldn't be going there, it wasn't in the school district encompassing her falsified home downtown. Wait, maybe he wouldn't be in the same grade. If he wasn't in the same grade, it would be easy enough to avoid him.

"Depends on what grade you're in."

"Eighth. I skipped seventh."

_Dammit. _"Lucky you. I guess I'll see you around." She smiled nervously.

"You go there?" Reuben was ecstatic. "That's great! Yeah, dude, I'll see you around! We can-"

"Hey, Reuben, Eisley," Vick paced over, his timing very saved-by-the-bell, "this is Justin Rochester," he stepped out of the way so a sturdy white boy could nod his head once in stoic salutation, "and his sister, Mel." _Mel_ also nodded once, and Eisley noticed her barbie-like features were reminiscent of Rosalie's: beautiful, but harsh.

Neither Eisley or Reuben spoke, both getting a mysteriously unpleasant vibe from the new students.

"They've just signed up for the after-school classes," Vick continued. "Eisley, could you take Mel to the locker room so she can get changed?"

"Sure, Vick," Eisley replied, giving Mel a light smile and nodding her head toward the thin flight of stairs that led to the basement. "This way."

"Reuben, how about giving Justin here a round?"

----

"So, have you boxed before?" Eisley politely took Mel's duffel and led the way into the dusky basement.

The blonde hung back in the shadowy dank of the room for a moment. When her creamy face did appear, it was framed by the yellow light, glowing in a way almost malicious. Her airy, friendly voice betrayed no hint of malcontent, however. "Only with my older brothers. I have three, including Justin."

Eisley grinned sympathetically. "I feel your pain. Here we are," she found an empty locker and undid the latch. "Any questions?"

"No. Thank you," she smiled sweetly. "Your name was Eisley, right?"

"Yeah," Eisley bit her lip, scrutinizing the kid. She was model-like skinny, with hair styled like Rosalie's and a delicate amount of makeup applied. Eisley didn't have high expectations of her boxing ability.

"I guess...if you need anything, mine locker's number 27: it's around the corner on the other side."

Mel nodded, and Eisley slipped out, glancing over her shoulder awkwardly as she ascended the stairs.

----

"So how did you end up at Forks Middle School? I thought downtown wasn't a part of that district," Reuben inquired as he helped Eisley put away miscellaneous boxing equipment that had been left out. Mr. Vick had employed teams of two students to assist with gym clean-up; Thursdays were Eisley's and Reuben's.

"It isn't," she groaned as she bent over to collect a pair of worn blue gloves. "I started going there with the last foster family I stayed with." She straightened up and turned away, wincing. Up until this point, she hadn't had to outright _lie _about anything. The concept made her stomach churn in new and unfamiliar ways.

"That's cool. It'll be good to have a friend."

"Yeah. What time is it?" Eisley deflected that kodak moment.

"Uhhh," Reuben glanced around, finding no clock. He reached into his duffel for his watch. "5:20."

"Crap," Eisley sighed. "I'm late."

"I can give you a ride."

"That's okay."

Reuben exhaled slowly. "You confuse me, Monahan. Are you sure?"

"I'll be fine," she tossed some rubbish into the trash can and collected her backpack from the bench.

"Okay. See you tomorrow," Reuben offered, leaning against the broom in his hands.

"Here?"

"Yeah – I don't start school until we finish moving in. Mom said it'll be the end of October."

"Cool," Eisley headed for the door. "See ya."

"See ya. Hey, don't forget about the match this Saturday!"

"I won't!"


	7. Dirty Laundry

**Author's Note: To whomever (Alec S?) posted this review - **_Great story, but I'm a little confused. If she's a vampire there is no way  
ordinary __Humans__ would be besting her in the gym. Her strength would overpower them. This in turn would bring too much attention to her. She would also cause physical damage to them..._ **normally, I answer reviews like this directly, but it was anonymous, so I'm responding here – Eisley is doing her best to 'control' her vampire abilities, especially strength, so much so that ordinary humans seem capable of besting her. In this way, she keeps out of the limelight, draws attention away from herself, protecting exposure of the secret of what she is. As iterated in the books, a vampire's abilities can be controlled – all the Cullens, even Carlisle, whose job is work around human and human bodily fluids all day – have control of the most powerful, most basic vampire necessity: bloodthirst. Of course, Eisley has had less experience in such control, but as you'll see later, I've incorporated that aspect of her boxing, too. **

"Sorry I'm late," Eisley practically flew through the living room and up the stairs, leaving Carlisle halfway through his 'hello.' Hamlet flounced happily after her, yipping playfully. "I've got homework."

"I made you hot chocolate," Carlisle called just as she disappeared.

"I'll drink it later!" Eisley hollered back.

His brow furrowed, his ears catching light footfall behind him. Esme emerged from the kitchen, gazing at the stairs in fanciful awe. "She's been moving non-stop lately," she commented. Carlisle sighed, shaking his head. "I hope theatre rehearsals aren't cutting into her study time. School's important, too."

"At least she's enjoying it," Esme leaned into him, offering his mug of decaf.

"Seems to be. Thank you," he put an arm around his wife and kissed her hair gently. "Think she's too busy to hunt?"

"Only one way to find out," Esme smiled. "While you're up there, will you get her laundry? I want to start a load before we leave."

"Of course, milady," Carlisle gave a little bow and turned for the stairs, his eager expression betraying none of the suspicion he was feeling toward his youngest daughter.

"Get a room," Emmett chuckled as he and Rosalie emerged from the foyer. Carlisle winked at him and jogged up the polished wooden steps.

----

"Eisley?" Carlisle knocked on the door.

"Just a minute!" She shouted from the bathroom.

Eisley quickly stuffed some laundry into the hamper to hide the boxing gear and slid back into the bedroom on socked feet, wrenching the door open just as Carlisle's fist raised to knock again.

"What's up?" She asked, rather hastily.

"You okay, Em? You look a little flustered." He tried to squash the reserved suspicion eating at him, hoping he'd get the answer through some loaded questions, not that he had any idea what, if anything, was troubling the kid.

"I was in a rush. Trying to get to my homework faster. I have lots of homework," she rambled.

"I see. What are you studying for?" Carlisle paced around the child and into the small bedroom.

"Algebra quiz." Eisley glanced anxiously at the bathroom. "But - it can wait."

"Great. You must be hungry, been working so hard."

"Yeah," She gave an awkward grin and pushed her hands into her pockets. "Should we go then?"

"One second," he remembered. "Your mother wants me to get the laundry," he paced to the bathroom.

Eisley's eyes went wide. "I'll get it!"

"It's okay, Eisley, I got it-" Carlisle reached into the hamper and wrapped his arms around the lump of dirty clothes and towels. Suddenly, he paused, feeling something rubbery.

He returned to the bedroom, where Eisley remained standing, staring at her shoes.

"Where did you get these?" He extended the pair of shiny, red boxing gloves.


	8. Mel VS Eisley, Round 1

Eisley gazed blankly at the gloves. "Theatre props," she answered quickly, quickly enough to further raise Carlisle's awareness of her lately suspicious behavior.

"I thought you were just a stagehand. Why do you have props?"

Eisley hung her head, ready to resign herself to self-destruction and utter doom. _Quit lying, you idiot!_

"Eisley, where did you get these?"

"I bought them," she responded honestly. "With savings."

"Why? Your strength overcompensates – you don't need them."

_ I know I don't. But the other kids' faces appreciate the extra padding. _

"I thought you didn't like boxing anymore."

"What? Of course I do," Eisley replied.

"I don't see you in the basement anymore."

"I..." she sighed. "I was hoping to join...the team...at school." _Okay, so, in all practical sense of the word, she was being _honest. "I'm sorry, Carlisle, I'll take them back to the store-" She shifted forward to accept the darned things.

"Eisley," Carlisle bent down, "I'm glad you're pursuing this. I'm even happier you still enjoy it. I just wish you'd asked me first. It's a dangerous sport to play with humans. They're very fragile, and you know that better than most."

Eisley nodded.

He gave a satisfied smile. "Let's keep the boxing in the basement, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"Alright," he affirmed, kissing her on the forehead.

"I'm not in trouble?" She inquired dolefully.

"Oh, no, love, you're in trouble," he assured her. "For not being honest with me the first time I asked you about the gloves – extra chores tonight and until the end of next week. Clear?"

"Yes, sir." Eisley's stomach churned anxiously. "Is that all?"

Carlisle thought a moment. "Unless you don't think its enough." It was very unlike Eisley to lie, and he wasn't expecting a habit to be made of it, thought it was also strange she would pose such a question. Meanwhile, Eisley made failed attempts at squelching the unpleasant guilt spreading through her stomach – why did Carlisle _always_ have to give everybody the benefit of the doubt? Some small, squealing portion of her just wanted him to catch her red-handed and end this. What more proof did he need?

"Carlisle?" _What the hell are you doing, Eisley? Shut up! Don't, don't!  
_

"Yes, Eisley?"

"The debate team has a meet this Saturday," she began, her gut a pit of burning red flags and warning signs. "against a school from the downtown district. It'll be over there, in the morning."

"Oh, Eisley, if you'd told me sooner, I wouldn't have promised the Dean of Medicine I'd do my clinic hours this weekend. Would you like Esme to go?"

Eisley feigned disappointment, though the ache provided by wishing he could see her box was enough to make it sound real. "It's okay. It's a...boring topic anyway. Global warming and whole gasoline crisis."

"I've heard that one before," Carlisle rolled his eyes.

"Cool. So, I'm hungry," she put in, eager to change the subject.

"Last one to the treeline is a rotten egg," he jibed.

"You're on."

-----

When she rose from bed the next morning, Eisley felt anything but refreshed. The pain of her guilt was beginning to outweigh the recreational benefits of backstage boxing and, as much as she hated to admit it, she wasn't certain her once-unblackened conscience could take much more of the deceit. Even without lying outright, she was still dirty, a feeling of dread she couldn't shake. Unfortunately, if there was any perfect moment to confess her sins to Carlisle, it wasn't coming until after tomorrow's match. Not only was the team counting on her to win her weight division, Eisley felt oddly compelled to prove her worth in the ring, not only as a winner, but a valuable asset to the gym. The gym was the only place that allowed her to be something. Boxing at home, in the presence of sibling hostility, kept her too grounded. The team was going to see: she was worth something, and that would be enough for her.

Having focused so much on that single, most important goal, Eisley failed to take other variables into account with the master plan, two of which would prove nearly damning obstacles.

-----

"Hey, Eisley."

Eisley didn't look up from her book before a peculiar expression crossed her face. No one ever voluntarily approached her, and especially not at lunch, where the social implications of doing do would be devastating and witnessed by nearly everyone in the eighth grade. Beside her blue plastic chair, however, there Mel stood, just hovering, a Styrofoam tray of mystery meatloaf and macaroni casserole in her perfectly manicured white fingers.

"Hey," Eisley returned cautiously, gazing strangely at her as she took a seat and popped open her milk carton, suddenly catching a whiff of something potently sweet and dangerously familiar as the distance between them shortened.

A shiny, pink band-aid was wrapped around her right index finger. Eisley scooted away, ever-so-slightly, and before she could stop herself, asked what Mel had done to her hand.

"Oh, that? I cut myself closing my locker at the gym. Those edges are sharp," she smiled.

Eisley raised an eyebrow, wondering how this pixie-princess of a girl had survived even a _day_ at the boxing arena.

"Speaking of that, Vick says I'm your opponent for tomorrow's match."

Eisley swallowed, more out of hesitation than fear, though she did fear she might accidentally put Mel into a coma.

"Thanks for letting me know," she replied, eager for the conversation to be over.

Mel continued as if Eisley hadn't said anything. "And Justin is Reuben's opponent. Poor Reuben."

"Reuben's a great fighter," Eisley corrected her. "Your brother better train hard before tomorrow."

In a split-second, Mel's expression morphed from fresh to foul. "My brother's better than your boyfriend will ever be." And with that, she shoved back from the gray table and strode out of the cafeteria, leaving Eisley stuck pondering what the hell that situation had been about, and happily noticing that her face wasn't the only one in the room plastered with shock.

Beneath her thick skull, her brain fizzed in frustration.

Eisley cursed her situation for the umpteenth time. Everything was getting out of hand as it was, without some ridiculous rivalry spawning between Eisley, Reuben, and the Rochester siblings. Was Reuben even aware? Probably not yet. He'd find out after school.

On her way to algebra, Eisley considered that boxing was the only reason she was in any of this mess. Boxing was the tree from which she'd made a thousand matches, little reasons to keep lying.

As luck would have it, it only took one match to burn the tree.

Unable to focus, she failed the algebra quiz, something she never did, and never had done before.

**Author's Note: Hey, guys! Fish here – sorry I left you hanging only to keep Eisley from getting what most of you thought she was going to get from Carlisle. I'm a college student who spends a lot of time bored, sleeping, or studying, so I've got to get my laughs somehow. Never fear, I will tease you no longer (I hope) – we're more than halfway done here, and trust me, the end of this story will make all your anxious suffering worth it. **


	9. You Can't Have Your Cake and Eat It, Too

Eisley slumped into a metal bench and pressed her back against the red brick wall, watching Reuben and Justin spar, fully padded, in the second practice ring. She and Mel had just finished entertaining Vick with a few rounds; afraid of hurting the little blonde, Eisley had lowered the usual force of her blows, and paid for it dearly for, as she discovered after being floored three times, the girl was a force to be reckoned with.

Before her frustration could get the better of her, Vick called Eisley out of the ring for a breather.

Reuben and Justin paraded around the ring in relative semicircles, matching each other's advances like forward-facing mirrors. As always, Reuben seemed to dance: his movements were fluid, calculated, he was a machine. His footwork certainly put Justin's to shame, but Justin had his power for suitable counter-advantage. Though they were in the same weight division, Reuben's build came from pure muscle, whereas Justin's came from excess body weight. Not too much, but enough to make him sturdy, keep him rooted at a low center of gravity.

Eisley tried to anticipate his moves, but they weren't predictable. In fact, they seemed erratic, spontaneous, dangerously invented at the very last second to combat Reuben's punches, jabs, and dodges.

Using a swift punch-jab combination, Reuben floored his opponent. Eisley sighed in measurable relief, silently wishing she could use her innate vampire strength to win her own fight, and even then, she wasn't certain she'd be as good as him, any day of the week. And the match was tomorrow. Tomorrow morning.

"That was excellent, Reuben, excellent," Vick praised. "Justin, come on over to the bags, let's work on some combos." He parted the second and third rope walling the ring to allow the boys room to slip out. Reuben's grin was ear-to-ear; he high-five'd Eisley on his way to the water cooler.

"That was great, Reuben," she congratulated.

"It's all in the feet," he did a little victory tap dance.

"Oh, believe me," Eisley chuckled, "I smell that," she waved a clean towel in his face.

He stuck out his tongue. "How'd you do against Mel?"

Eisley shrugged in a crestfallen fashion. "I would have had her if Vick hadn't ended the round."

Reuben saw through her transparent effort to hide complete defeat. "Don't stress it, dude, you'll get her Saturday."

She gave a weak smile and took an uncomfortable swig of her energy drink.

-----

_Saturday_ rolled around far too quickly for Eisley's liking, but before she could ponder time's creepy idiosyncrasies, the most glorious hour of her big, fat, dishonest boxing scheme had arrived.

Compared to the stress of not being able to let bratty Mel really _have_ it in the ring, lying to Esme seemed almost easy.

"Why are you reading that?"

Esme looked up from the cookbook she'd been studying with a peculiar expression. "Oh, good morning, honey – well, when I was a little girl I always wanted to learn how to cook and, you know, I just never found the chance."

"But you don't eat, _we _don't eat." (Not completely true, they both knew – both Eisley and Nessie had tastes for certain human cuisine, as did Carlisle with his occasionally mocha.)

"Armani doesn't wear his clothes, but he enjoys making them," she reasoned, grinning, and stood, cupping Eisley's face in her pale, perfect hands. "What's with all these questions?"

_Trying to ease my way into this lie._

Eisley shrugged.

Esme chuckled. "Well, run along upstairs then while I vacuum down here." Esme spun the child toward the stairs and propelled her off with a playful swat to the seat. Eisley fled halfway to the second-floor landing.

"Oh, can I get a ride to Lake Pleasant? That's where the debate team competition is."

"Sure, honey – when is your meet?"

"10."

"I'll be ready in 15."

"Okay. Thanks, Esme." Dazed, Eisley jogged the rest of the flight.

"Wear something nice!"

_Right_.

-----

Esme dropped Eisley a few yards from the school's entrance.

"When should I come and pick you up?" she called out the passenger side window of the black Mercedes.

"Oh, uhm, there's a bus coming to drive us back – our sponsor wants to take us out for dinner."

"Oh, that's lovely, dear. I'm so glad you're making friends."

_Oh, yeah. _

"See you at home, then? 8 'o clock?"

"Yeah," Eisley answered quickly. "Yeah."

"Okay, honey. Love you."

Unable to speak, Eisley nodded, and watched as Esme drove off.


	10. Symbol of Truth

_I shouldn't have been so quick to assume that I'd get away with attending the boxing match simply because I'd gotten away with attending all the practices, nearly every Tuesday and Thursday evening for two weeks, and then some. I'd falsify emergency theater rehearsals, just for extra time in the gym. Why I loved the sport so much, I've never figured out. _

_Odd, considering I'd figured out everything else. _

Eisley shot through the school parking lot's many rows of sunkissed cars and rusty trucks, jumped a chain-link fence and blasted toward the freeway, feet flying as fast as they could go. Scrambling onto the retaining wall of the road, she hoisted herself over the side and free-fell into the underpass below, a dirt plot of undeveloped land, populated with various abandoned dumpsters, shoddy fences, and old newspapers. They fluttered about her trainers as they pounded the ground in even rhythm.

Upon reaching the rim of the forest, Eisley quickly slid into the treeline, ran a few more meters, leapt into a banked riverbed, and collapsed beneath the exposed roots of a large willow tree. She yanked her watch right-ways around her wrist, and in minutely digitalized neon letters it read a twenty-nine past ten. The imaginary debate meet had been in progress only minutes, however, Lake Pleasant School District was a round-about fifteen miles from Forks, and twenty or thirty from the gym.

The boxing match was at 12:15. Plenty of time, but Eisley wasn't wasting any of it.

Her backpack slipped from her shoulders and onto the pebbled bank, damp with fresh river and the dew of early morning. Eisley unzipped and left it open while she quickly removed her pleated trousers, dressy blue blouse, and sneakers, revealing a second layer beneath of comfy navy basketball shorts and a matching sleeveless tee over a white undershirt.

Relieved to be free of her uncharacteristically formal clothing, Eisley took a moment to allow her skin to breathe and the chill Washington wind to relieve some of the excess body heat. She tossed her discarded outfit into the bag and pulled free a set of black and white Adidas high-top boxing shoes she'd been keeping apart from her other boxing gear. They were leather-bound beauties, they were, perfectly fitting and gloriously comfortable. Running the last few miles in them would only further break them into usable form, and Eisley had no doubt they'd impress. Even if she lost, she'd look fantastic. She had the footwork for these shoes.

Slipping them on, she laced them with lightening speed, zipped the backpack, tossed the straps over her shoulders, and clambered up the tree onto dry ground to continue running.

---

"Reuben, seen Eisley?" Vick approached the boy in the locker room, just as he finished tightening his handwraps.

He sighed. "No. She said she'd be here."

"Alright, we'll give her a few minutes. Why don't you go ahead and warm up?" Vick took his red leather gloves from the wooden bench and helped him strap them on firmly.

"Nervous?"

Reuben laughed. "Naw."

"Alright then," Vick smiled at his confidence and handed him his headgear.

"Go get him, champ."

"Though you weren't supposed to take sides," Reuben called back as he reached the basement steps.

"I'm not taking sides," Vick replied loudly, then winked.

---

_Crap, crap, crap, crap._

Eisley barreled out of the trees and collided with a low slope of grass that sided a busy highway. As nonchalant as she could possible appear, Eisley hopped up onto the sidewalk and jogged across the street, down a few blocks to Orchard Street, and into the alleyway of the Olympian Boxing Gym.

She pressed her weight against the peeling green door and slid into the hallway dividing the boys' and girls' locker room.

---

"Eisley!" Vick spotted her and hollered from across Ring One.

She glanced up, startled. "Yeah?"

"You've got ten minutes, warm up!"

She gave a quick thumbs-up, stepped edgily around a group of kids waterbreaking by the equipment lockers, and jogged to the tiny back room that housed punching and focus bags.

She'd gotten a few combinations going when Reuben appeared at her doorjamb.

"Where have you been? Don't you live like fifteen minutes from here?"

"Who are you, the tardy police?" she aimed a mock swing at his head.

"Sorry. I was just worried." He leaned in closer. "Mel was looking right proud of herself before you walked in."

Eisley glanced over his shoulder twitching in her direction. Her expression seemed rather sour.

"Think she thought you'd have to forfeit."

"I might."

"Why?"

Eisley ceased her assault on the bag and leaned backwards against it. "My game's not so good today."

"How do you know?"

"Just a feeling."

"Come on, Eis, what kind of craptalk is that?"

Eisley shrugged. Winning seemed less and less like a possibility. If she did end up victorious, it would only be because she either A) just got lucky, or B) accidentally lost control of her inhuman abilities, neither of which was very appealing: she wanted to win because she had the human skills to win, in a even match of wits and strength, not because of some stupid fluke or an overachievement on her part.

"Here," an invisible lightbulb crackled to life over Reuben's head, and he undid the clasp of the thin black rope around his neck, from which a silver pendant with some obscure Chinese symbol hung. "This always brings me good luck."

Eisley took it politely. "You believe silly stuff like that?"

"Doesn't hurt," he grinned. "I gotta get into the ring. Don't worry about Mel, you can take her."

She nodded, running a sweaty thumb over the smooth, cold surface of the symbol.

"Hey, wait!" She called after him, extending the charm. "What does this mean?"

"Truth!" He shouted back and disappeared into the cheering crowd of parents.


	11. Mel VS Eisley, Round 2

Reuben's round lasted a full five three-minute rounds, giving Eisley seemingly endless time to ponder the situation in general, more thoughts she wished she didn't have bouncing chaotically around her head. Like hornets, they crashed blindly into the sides of her skull, left painfully minute migraines in their stinging wake.

She paced for a couple of minutes, weaving unceremoniously between the columns of punching bags, inhaling the deeply embedded scents of sweat, leather, and... blood. She withdrew quickly to the single wooden bench in the center of the tiny closeted room, exhaling heavily to clear her nostrils.

Slumped quietly on her perch, elbows boring impressions into the skin of her knees, she fingered the charm upon the roped necklace, ran her thumbs over its silvery surface.

Just outside the curtained doorjamb, a crowd cheered wildly for both sides. Out of the many tens of people: parents, friends of family, people proud to see their children doing something with themselves, Eisley's ears found the one cheering loudest for Reuben Hoss. _Go, Reuben, go! Get him, baby!_

A mother. His mother.

Eisley smiled to herself and returned her gaze to the heavy weight in her hands.

She'd been over her master plan a thousand times in her head, hedonistically calculated that the pros of boxing far outweighed the probable cons, and yet, every little worked-out detail, even presented in the situations that marked successes in keeping the secret - fooling Carlisle, fooling Esme, fooling Edward and Alice – all seemed disgustingly trivial next to fooling Reuben.

And even so, every success to the present was just a failure in disguise.

Unlike Reuben, Eisley had no mother, or father, in the audience to cheer her on, nobody cared whether she won or lost. Except Reuben, and even then, he really only cared that she wasn't beating herself up if thing went south.

She had no clue why he cared so much. She couldn't feel the way toward him he, perhaps, felt toward her.

There was too much at stake.

But lying to him was the final straw. He didn't deserve it.

"Three minutes, Eisley, you ready?" Vick's head appeared in the doorway.

Eisley glanced up slowly, then back at her hands. She closed her fist around the symbol of truth and pulled her gloves on, more ready than she'd ever been for anything in her entire life.

---

Reuben won his match by a landslide. Vick slid into the ring as the final bell sounded, pulling his sweaty glove into the air and raising it high. Reuben gave a little victory breakdance, eliciting more cheers and whoops from the crowd, ripped off his headgear and gloves and tossed them away. He bowed once and slipped out off the stage.

Eisley was waiting for him alongside, watching as Vick led a downtrodden Justin to the locker room.

"You don't want to give a speech or anything?" She laughed, they pumped fists.

"Hey, there'll be plenty of Reuben for later," he assured teasingly. Eisley rolled her eyes.

"You still got the necklace?"

"I have it."

"No sweat then," he gave a two-fingered salute and jogged into his mother's waiting embrace.

Eisley watched their loving exchanges for a few seconds, the way she hugged him, kissed his face all over like a commonly overprotective and proud mother who first checks her child for injuries, then proceeds to praise him for a job well done. They spoke fluent Spanish to each other, their native Hispanic language.

"Eisley, you're up," Vick leaned over the ring's rope wall. Eisley nodded, glanced back at the desirable scene before her, and with steady resolve, clambered into her corner of the ring.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if you'll please take your seats!" Vick began, tapping the lapels of his sweatshirt with the end of the microphone. _Boom, boom, boom_. "Up next we have the final match for this last weight division, girls' side," he approached the center of the ring, dragging the cord along his feet. Eisley closed her eyes, feeling inside her veins every vibration of the coach's voice, the breezy hush of the crowd. Her tongue seemed dry; she licked the roof of her mouth to generate saliva, tasting a faint twinge of metallic elk blood, a precautionary meal she'd caught in the forest.

The reason she'd been late.

The lights of the gym filtered through her eyelids, and when she opened them, solid topaz gems reflected it back into the crowd. Eisley looked at Mel. Mel looked at Eisley, and the world seemed hushed.

Miles away on a distant planet, a crowd was in an uproar, and Vick called their names.

_In this corner, Mel Rochester, 13 years old._

_In this corner, Eisley Monahan, 13 years old. _

The words "Round One," sped everything back into focus, and in that single blip of universal time, Eisley was in the center of the ring, facing Mel, prepared to fight.

_Ding_.


	12. Verbus Ad Verbera

_Mel wasted not a nanosecond, forcing Eisley to take defensive measures immediately. She threw a solid jab-cross combo, which Eisley dodged with apparent ease and countered with a low, mediated blow to the stomach. Her opponent returned with a fist to the head she she straightened up, making Eisley's ears ring and pushing the crowd's noise farther into the ambient background. _

_They were evenly matched on nearly every human plane: size, strength, skill, speed, wit. _

_To exert control over that which gave her definite advantage, Eisley re-took to the defensive, biding her time until the last possible minute, utilizing duck and dodge techniques to rack up points with the judges until she could deliver the final blow. _

_Control. _Eisley understood the concept of _control_ to every definitional extent. It was a both a verb, and a noun, and when it was a verb it was to be used with an object, as in, to control _emotions_, to control a _variable_, to exert a degree of restraint or direction, to dominate, to command.

A mighty blow to her left shoulder had Eisley spun backwards. She parried out and returned Mel a cross to the stomach. Her bicep did not flex comfortably with the hit, and as if she had been standing still for hours, her muscles began to tense with lack of their capable exertion.

_Control, control _as a noun, _to _control, to be _under_ control. Yes, it is under control, she imagined, I am under control. My control. I am being controlled. _No!_ No, I have control, control without overthinking its concept.

Eisley dodged another headshot two rounds in, as they were becoming more and more predictable. Beneath the sweaty layers of her padded headgear and thick skull, neurons pulsed and connected at speeds unmeasurable, faster than wildfire. She grinned wickedly.

_Control, control, control. _I am under control.

Carlisle was the pinnacle of self-control. He once communicated how difficult it was for a vampire to maintain it. Not exert it, maintain it. To exert is to be consciously reinstating a degree of control over oneself every passing moment. To maintain is subconscious, and takes many decades to master, even for the quick-study pupil, the most brilliant of young vampires.

_I am under control. _

In high-stress situations, humans become tense, anxious, Carlisle explained one evening over casual chess. They begin to sweat, their stomachs churn, they may behave antisocially, cruelly, eat copious amounts of strawberry ice cream, or go on whiskey binges in poor efforts to relieve their elevated sense of panic, for _most _humans, historically, are terrible controllers of stress.

Mel and Eisley were videotaped images of themselves. Perfectly coordinated, they had memorized each other's fighting style by the end of round three. The battle began to fall into rhythmic flow, and as this factor of ease began to creep into her head, Eisley's awareness of anything conscious began to slip.

Vampires are much the same way, Carlisle continued, checking Eisley's black king. She surrendered willingly, lost in a daydream. Except that vampires are not easily stressed. Unlike humans, they are not easily drawn to materialism or popularity or even the need to be social, for they are creatures of survival with only one need: blood. Though some of us have discovered lovely family life and greatly enjoy it, blood is the core of all life, and vampires will stress when they cannot have it, even if they do not necessarily want it.

_Control is a coordinated arrangement of three variables: strength, speed, and stamina._

I knew of a German doctor once, many years ago, who studied vampire psychology and psychopathy as an unlabeled profession. He took the common knowledge that a vampire would literally go insane sans blood, and applied it to the sadistic fashion in which he analyzed live test subjects. This was during the Holocaust, when many Jews were taken to concentration camps as human lab rats – this doctor, a vampire himself, recognized them for what they were, and though he kept their statuses secret, he exerted no mercy.

_Control is the exertion of mercy. _

Eisley recoiled one second to early and Mel's fist collided with her jaw. Though her mindset was altogether calm, her body was becoming enraged at such defilement. Mel's face and neck dripped with sweat, her blood rushed to the surface of every muscle, boiling with adrenaline. Venom coursed through Eisley's wide-open veins, seeped into her retinas and twisted around each synapse of her cerebrum.

_Control is to exercise control. Control is to exercise itself. Itself is control. I am under control. _

A vampire without control will react instinctively to the presence of blood, whether or not he is hungry for it. It is mechanized survival. The doctor's subjects experienced such devastating withdrawal when forced to exist without it that they began to chew their own wrists. This is the farthest extreme to which a vampire will go before insanity, and that is something the creature's population has never been willing or equipped to risk, and so, vampires evolved as purely instinctive beings. In short, _if there is blood, and if the vampire has not enough control to both accept and ignore its presence, blood will be spilt and the vampire will have it_. You must remember this, Eisley.

_You must remember this, Eisley_.

_Remember what?_

Eisley understood control as a verb and a noun. She understood it definitionally, all eighteen of them according to Webster's 10th edition. She understood it as a concept.

She did not understand it as a vampire.

As a vampire, the thing to be controlled is oneself, and that is a paradox.

_If you are in control, Eisley, it means that you are also being controlled. Do you know the definition of the difference?_

Eisley exhaled empty air and spit flew from the corners of her mouth as Mel's fist connected there again.

Beneath her right glove, the symbol of truth sliced into her clenched fist. Her muscles contracted painfully, ready to spring at free will. Her brain processed thousands of punch combinations in single nanoseconds, her eyes dilated so large the onyx pupils obstructed the golden iris.

Eisley's arms fell to their sides just as Mel slammed her weight into her chest. Eisley fell to her back. Vick's voice upped in volume, calling the numbers.

_One_.

Control was never lost upon her, for it had never been truly had. One cannot misplace what one never had.

_Two_.

The crowd on another planet. The ring itself began to fade, to blur horribly, until the only clear image was Mel, dancing from foot to foot.

_Three_.

Five seconds was the official pin, but winning was no longer important. It was never important.

_Four_.

"Come on, Eisley, I promise, I'll finish you quickly," Mel chanted.

_No. No, no_. Eisley shut her eyes. _Oh, god, no. _

Eisley realized too late that her body was about to mutiny on her brain, and win.

A growl rumbled up her throat. Time dwindled on the clock, and in stop-animation horror-movie slow motion, her head rose from the ground, her eyes locked upon the target.

No one saw her get to her feet.

Mel hit the ground, hard.


	13. Two Halves of a Whole

**Author's Note: Thanks for all the great reviews so far, guys! I had a lot of people add Verbus Ad Verbera to their story alert list the past couple days, which is very pleasing for an author. I did get a couple questions about the depth of Chapter 12 – basically, it's divided into three planes of thought: there's Eisley and Mel fighting, there's Eisley trying to _keep_ control, and there's Eisley's subconscious (subconsciously) remembering Carlisle's lecture _on_ control. I have to say, that chapter was one of my favorites to write. **

**Well, hopefully I won't drag this out too much longer. All the build-up of suspense and web of lies has even gotten ME concerned about what's going to happen to Eisley when Carlisle finds out. **

**SO, as a troubled author, I'd like to request that you, my dear audience, if you review, please give me your direct and personal opinions on the matter. What punishment do you think is appropriate? Anything you think I've missed or need to include toward the end? What would you like to see? (I'll do my best to satisfy.)**

_Mel hit the ground, hard. _

Eisley's last conscious emotion was fear, though it lasted only milliseconds, and then the world was gone. Eisley shut her eyes. Vick counted. _One. Two. _The percussion of a drum sounded before the execution. _Three_.

"Come on, Mel, I promise, I'll finish you quickly," she whispered hoarsely.

"Aaaugh!" Mel hurled herself at Eisley, punching and jabbing for all she was worth. Eisley did not attempt to evade, retaliate, or dodge any of the powerful blows. She crumpled to all fours, and her ears popped with the impacting vibration of the entire boxing ring. Her head twisted to the right and found a boy's mussed black hair, his eyes glassy with shock. Her own eyes were blank, devoid of all except the sad shadow of a child that once occupied them.

_Not yet, _her body whispered_._

_One. Two. _

_Not yet._ Another surge of adrenaline, and Eisley's human nature would be blasted off the skeleton of the primal creature she was. Unable to fight, what was left of the former would unwillingly submit to instinct.

_Three._

Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth and she slid her arm across her jaw. The pale skin gleamed with the thick, scarlet substance. A grin cracked wickedly across her face, and she got to her feet, very slowly.

_Now. _

Eisley ripped off her headgear and shot forward, her padded fist colliding with the Mel's face. The sound of cartilage breaking was sweet music to her ears, another log on the fire, more salt on the open wound. Blood streamed from the prey's nose and into the predator's.

Mel crumpled, screaming in pain. The vampire lunged.

"Eisley!"

Foreign hands snatched at her clothing, locked around her arms and shoved her away. Eisley slid across the smooth, chalky surface of the ring floor, growling fiercely, Mel's blood-pumping heartbeat thumping in her ears like a staccato bass drumline.

"That's enough!"

The crowd's shouting and noise flooded back into Eisley's kinesthetic perception, fueling a current of rage. She got to her feet, assuming a lethal position unfamiliar to any boxing trainer.

"Eisley, Eisley!" Reuben shouted. "It's over!"

As if zooming through a single, never-ending dark tunnel, windswept and drunk with confusion, Eisley's selective subconscious, the human part, began to separate itself from the beast. She felt this detachment, and it was the most painful thing she'd ever comprehended could be endured, though what it was, she couldn't say.

Her jaw locked against the excruciation of battling the two halves of herself, as each tried to suck one another into a massive space of existence through a tiny breach the size of a minute rip of a canvas, or a invisible crack on a mirror.

She was not aware of any of this.

_You must remember this, Eisley. _

Her brain fizzed, her body struggled to recapture her attention, get its feet to move. _Get her, now!_

_Remember what? Remember __what__? Carlisle!_

"Eisley!"

She reacted, lunged in direct floor-to-Mel trajectory, and three feet above the mat, collided with one obstacle she hadn't counted on having to overcome. Eisley stumbled back into the ropes – they chafed her bare arms and stuck to the Velcro of her gloves. Snarling, she ripped them away and yanked at the bands with her teeth until they loosened and fell to the floor.

_Reuben, _someone whispered. _It's Reuben. Don't hurt him. _

Eisley glanced up, eyes pitch black. The boy held his stance between her and the bleeding stuck pig in the opposite corner. Vick pulled her from the ring, shoved a towel into her nose.

"Eisley, calm down, come on. It's over."

Eisley didn't move.

"Eisley, Eisley," Reuben approached, trying to calm her.

She took a bodily step forward, startling him.

"Eisley!"

The crowd hushed.

Eisley's instinct screamed in protest. _Move!_

"Eisley, calm down. Everything's fine. Your dad's here, look."

_Dad?_

Vampires do not need to breathe, but that does not mean they are incapable, or that they do not expend energy just as rapidly as any human. The science of both creatures only exists because of such direct proportions – there cannot be humans without vampires, and there cannot be vampires without humans. In every vampire, there is a human, wondering what happened. When they do decide to breathe, it is an autonomic reaction by the human factor within that misses having the lead part in that person's existence, and the act of breathing itself becomes a calming middle ground, a compromise.

_Carlisle. _

Eisley recalled the very first time she saw him, just before she fell into a river and nearly drowned careening over a waterfall and into the massive abyss of pond below. She'd sunk many tens of feet into the crushing dark blue, her lungs had burned with lack of oxygen, her veins shriveled with a deprivation of air-supplied red blood cells, and when her head broke the surface, she had gasped for air like there was none left in the world to have.

In a final display of aggression, Eisley's weakened, unused expanse of vampire strength and energy shot her forward in an involuntary lunge, and, forced to defend himself, Reuben snapped his fist into her face. She collapsed, and took a massive breath of musky air into her lungs.

Before the adrenaline dissolved and the pain of an ass-kicking set in, Eisley's eyes found a white-clad figure inches from the ropes, gazing down at her with disappointed golden eyes.


	14. A Sparrow's Betrayal

**Author's Note: I'm going through a bit of a block, which is why my chapters are so short, but I'm trying to update in pairs to get this done faster and not have to keep you hanging onto a cliffhanger for too long. **

**Getting near the end. I don't know how my stories end up so lengthy – I wish I was creative enough to crank out more one-shots and increase proficiency, like some of my colleagues, but alas, I get too attached to a single plot. **

**Anyway, I'm trying to keep this restricted to another 2-4 chapters, if they're not too short. **

**Enjoy!**

The neighborhood surrounding the Olympian Boxing Gym possessed a certain blue-collar charm. Above every mom-and-pop chicken house, every franchise video rental store, those lower middle class families of all ages and races spent the breezy autumn happily cooped in their tiny apartments, windows thrust open toward the pale white sun, bricks red and glistening with a fresh coat of rainwater.

Children roamed the streets freely, it appeared, their mothers never shy of the doorsteps to which they would reluctantly return when dinner was announced. A few of them, the older lot, kept riding their rusty bicycles in circles, bouncing from curb to street, street to curb on inflated tires. The smell of concrete and auto mechanics was only outweighed by the sound of rubber as it smeared across the pavement, and the clink of tools as self-made men with empty pocketbooks tinkered away at 60s Ford Mustangs and vintage Comets of every color. Fluffy brown sparrows perched on the crisscrossed telephone lines above.

The cemented sidewalk was cracked in few enough places to give it a rustic feeling, an underlying notion of intended wear. Tufts of sandy dirt and sprigs of soft green grass poked feebly through the crevices, weeding around the legs of the wooden bench upon which Eisley sat, taking it all in. A portion of her view, to the diagonal right, was blocked by an obstruction rather out of place in the weathered urbanity of downtown: Carlisle's gleaming, black, perfectly clean-cut Mercedes SS5.

Eisley hung her head and sighed, pondering the irony of the situation as a whole: how, all along the way, she'd worked out every little detail, every aspect of the plan, even when decisions were made on the spot, they were made according to the plan. Ironically, she found herself presently unable to recount the "plan," whatever _plan_ that had been. Unable to form coherent thoughts, she simply sat and took in the scenery. She probably looked rather peculiar, sitting there dressed in shorts and a bloody t-shirt, her knuckles torn through the handwraps, left eye blackened, and a padded mask across her mouth and nose, courtesy of Carlisle. It blocked out nearly every traceable scent of blood or other human bodily fluids, and was lined with an otherwise calming fragrance Eisley didn't recognize.

_The plan never really had a goal._

To keep boxing at the Gym.

_For how long, did you suppose?_

Eisley unclenched her fist for the first time since she'd struck Mel in the face. Her soft palm radiated crimson blood, dried in the voided shape of some previously obscure symbol of Truth. Cringing, she pulled the charm from the thin gash where her grip had sliced it into the flesh and held it out.

_Until you got caught?_

Great, yes.

_Mission accomplished. _

_----_

Inside, Carlisle was having a long, long, long conversation with Mr. Vick, explaining as calmly as he could that it was very unlike Eisley to fly off the handle, but given the pressure of her first real match and the tension between her and her assigned opponent, he understood what might have caused her to crack. Unfortunately, as one subject was cleared from airspace, Vick began to make inquiries about her home life and other possible stresses, how he himself was pushed through a few foster homes, some of them abusive, like Eisley's.

"I can't condone her actions – she knows the rules of the ring, very well, she's an excellent boxer," Vick rubbed his neck in thought, "but I suppose I'll have to keep her away from the formal matches until she can relax a bit. And I understand, I understand. Poor kid."

Carlisle's degree of frustration was rising by the nanosecond. _Abusive foster families?_

"Mr. Vick," he began.

"Just Vick," he smiled.

"_Vick_," Carlisle ground out. "How long has Eisley been boxing here, would you say?"

"Uhm, well, actually, I have the forms here in my office-" he pushed a path through discarded boxing gear to a small, gray closet of a room, overpowered by a large desk and bulky white computer. He slid around to the filing cabinet and shuffled through the M's...

"Mason, Miller, M, M, M.... Monahan, here we go," he reached within the green folder and withdrew the initial contract. "I require parental consent – she brought this back to me on that date, there," he pointed to the minute black numbers while extending the paper to Carlisle.

Sure enough, resting comfortably upon the thin black signature line was his scrawly John Hancock, and beneath, in perfectly legible Times New Roman, the date _September 8, 2009, _almostexactly one month ago.

"How many practices does she come to a week?"

Vick eyed him peculiarly, as if wondering why he didn't know.

"I'm a doctor – I work a lot of late shifts, and she's usually home before I am," he fabricated.

"Of course," Vick exhaled, tugging at the towel draped 'round his neck. "Two or three, usually two – Tuesdays and Thursdays, sometimes Fridays. They have matches on the first Saturday of every month."

"And this was her first?"

"Mmhmm."

Carlisle took another moment to scrutinize the forms in his hands, flipping the first page back along the poorly stapled edge.

"Well, I'm sorry I missed it," he smiled courteously to disguise his disappointment. "Mind if I hang onto this?"

"Not at all," Vick extended his hand and Carlisle shook it. "Should I be expecting her back for practice Tuesday?"

"Your number's on the card, here, I'll give you a call."

"Great. Pleasure to meet you..."

"Carlisle. Carlisle Cullen."

"Carlisle."

----

"Eisley?"

She raised her head. Reuben ventured casually from the alleyway, his black loafers crackling on the loose gravel lining the curb, and approached the bench. His lime green necktie was tucked perfectly between a clean-cut white tuxedo shirt and black, pinstriped vest, complete with meticulously pressed matching slacks. The stiff collar circled his neck almost completely, and his ever- disheveled muss of black hair ruffled easily in the breeze.

Seemingly, despite the occasion and his mother's insistence he be decent for his victory dinner at Tito's Mexican Grill, Reuben had no qualms about dusting up his celebratory garb. He nudged Eisley's shoulder with an impatient hand, and she scooted right so he could take a seat on the not-so-sanitary planks of the bench.

Neither of them spoke for a few long moments. Reuben crossed his arms and slumped back, while Eisley remained hunched forward, calm as a Hindu cow.

When she finally had all the dried, decaying blood scraped from the silvery surface of the charm, she balled it into one fist and placed it in Reuben's lap without looking at him. He shifted slightly, an arm descended to grip it, and he bent forwards, too, arching his back and pushing his elbows onto his knees.

"Why are you wearing that?"

Swallowing, Eisley pressed a hand against the scratchy fiberglass mask and pulled it away from her head, her nostrils immediately flooded with the alluring scents of the environment: the smoky smell of new bricks and concrete, every individual drop of icy dew on every ambrosial flower or blade of grass, and Reuben's detergent-lined two-piece suit, mingled with the rapidly weakening essence of blood upon the sweaty cotton of her shirt.

"Congratulations on your win," she offered motionlessly.

He ignored this, as she expected he would. She didn't need Edward's abilities to know he was going to ask for answers, and not walk away without having his wants fulfilled.

"So what happened?"

"It's nothing," Eisley answered too quickly, trying to keep her eyes away from the piece of Truth he was thumbing, but it kept glinting forebodingly in her peripheral vision.

"What, did you just panic or something?"

She didn't respond. Every fiber in her body was fizzling under the month-long build-up of distrust, the overwhelming pressure of a million burning lies, each more blasphemous than the previous, each a tiny well-constructed ark too shaken, now, to handle the ocean's rocky tides.

And the ocean had most certainly been rocked. Eisley had treaded water for too long, she should have _planned_ on her energy finally expending completely. On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for anything drops to zero.

"It looked like you were having a fit or something," he continued, waving his hands around for emphasis. "And when you looked at me it was like you didn't know me or something."

Eisley swallowed.

"Sorry I had to hit you."

As much as she wanted to tell him 'it was no big deal, it'll be completely healed by next Tuesday,' she couldn't. As much as she wanted to explain everything, she couldn't. As much as she wanted to scream at him that he really should find better company to hang with, she couldn't. She liked him too much to tell him the truth. What would he think? They had a good thing going, she and him – an easy friendship, a shared interest in boxing, a similar psyche, it seemed. To shake up that dynamic would be as stupid as throwing oneself naked into a brush of poison sumac, and just as painful.

On the other hand, did she owe him?

"It happens sometimes," she whispered hoarsely. "I wish I could explain it."

Reuben closed his mouth, sadly unsatisfied.

"Eisley, I-"

"I'm sorry if I hurt you," Eisley returned quietly. The tinny bell hanging above the glass door to the gym dinged and Carlisle stepped onto the pavement, his hands tucked in the thin pockets of his medical-issue jacket. Eisley stood and backed toward him, giving Reuben a final, halfhearted salute.

_If you can't tell him the truth, leave him alone. He deserves what you can't give him. _

"It was nice meeting you," she swallowed back a wad of bile and nonexistent tears.

Carlisle opened the back door of the Mercedes, and she disappeared into the machine, leaving Reuben alone, his palms sweating around the only piece of Truth he'd ever been given by Eisley Monahan, teenage vampire.


	15. Blood, Rain, and Tears

The drive home was so long Eisley began to wonder a few minutes in if Carlisle was cutting through unnecessarily lengthy detours or coasting down highways, which didn't make sense, given that he hadn't spoken a single word since they disembarked from the gravelly curb on Orchard Street. It had begun to rain; the drops pattered rhythmically against the sloped windows, their transparent shadows dappling all over the gray leather seat upon which Eisley slumped, knees pulled to her chest, fingers twirling the thick laces of her boxing shoes.

The sky darkened further and further into pallor shades of gray, and Eisley noticed the vehicular vibration of the car steady to a low hum as it pulled through the final loop between the pines and up the smooth driveway. The outside view was replaced by fluorescent lights and the blue-tinted interior of the Cullens' garage.

So close to impending doom, Eisley began to understand the gravity of her situation, and the hundreds of reasons Carlisle might have extended the drive, each more terrifying than the next – time to think, time for his temper to cool, time to reason what he might say when he finally let her have it... one could only speculate.

Carlisle stepped out of the car, and Eisley's feet slipped to the floorboards. Suddenly she wished he'd driven longer, and glanced at the illuminated dashboard – the gas meter read nearly empty.

Her door jerked open, startling her. Carlisle wasn't wasting time with formalities, courtesies, or hearing any more of Eisley's false explanations. She'd had her chance to be honest with him hundreds of times over the past month. He grabbed her by the arm, hauled her out of the backseat, and dragged her up the stairs to the living room without a word.

Esme was waiting, perched anxiously upon the edge of the low, white sofa, hands tucked between her thighs in worried thought. The garage door slammed and she was up like a shot, just as her husband and youngest child appeared around the hallway corner.

"Eisley!" she exclaimed with obvious concern and an undercurrent of scolding, knocking the human breath of the girl in a crushing hug. Eisley gulped, her adam's apple slipping against the warm cashmere of her mother's sweater. Her cheeks flushed in shame when she realized she was probably dirtying it with her grimy face and bloodstained shirt.

"Do you have any idea how worried we were?" Esme held her out at arm's length.

She couldn't formulate words to respond. Her mouth prickled from saliva deprivation, her tongue heavy with a feeling of fuzz she couldn't lick away.

"Are they gone?" Carlisle inquired grimly.

"Yes. You nearly gave me a heart attack," Esme scolded, shaking her gently. "What was I supposed to think when the school said they've never heard of any debate tournament?"

"I'm sorry, Ma," Eisley offered sadly, wondering what reason Esme had had for contacting the school in the first place.

She sighed. "I swear, Eisley Martel... if you ever scare me like that again it won't be Carlisle you need to worry about."

This was a side of Esme Eisley had never before encountered – she had always been a mother figure, so possessing that overprotective instinct, but the not-so-idle threats were new, and probably a direct reaction to her previous inability and helplessness to defend her child's well-being. From what Eisley had read about mothers, the kindest ones tended to be the strictest, and although she had never been the receiving end of Esme's hand, she suddenly had no notions it wouldn't be just as unbearable as anything Carlisle could dish out.

Well, almost as unbearable. She nodded quickly, her nerves fraying with anxiety. Esme gave her one last flustered look and stood to face her husband. Eisley fidgeted tensely between them, much to Carlisle's annoyance; he snatched her by the collar and pushed her toward the stairs.

"To your room, go."

"Yes, sir," she whispered hoarsely.

----

**Author's Note: In this chapter, there is a Coldplay song referenced repeatedly. That's your cue to put it on as background music while you read. **

_Tick. Tick. Tick. _

Eisley practically flew over the threshold into her bedroom, her eyes burning with dry tears. She yanked her bloody shirt over her head, kicked off her shoes and shorts, and ripped away the elastic handwraps with sudden disdain for their concept in general. She shoved them into a bundle and kicked them across the hardwood floor, threw herself across the bed, retrieved fresh blue jeans, and a gray jumper, and pulled them on. Her feet caught on the hems of the pants, frustrating her further. Her vision clouded with vampire tears – the excess of venom that gathered at the rims – she gave an exasperated grunt and yanked them on, pinching her fingers. Defeated, she pulled the sweater over her bruised chest and slumped upon the bed, burying her face in her hands.

_Tick. Tick. Tick. _

She glanced at the burnished analog clock perched upon the nightstand, with its jet-black minute hand tauntingly static and the bright red second-line tick, tick, ticking away. _Tick, tick, tick, _went the little red line, red like the color of fresh blood, the color of the button on comic-book spaceships that reads 'Do Not Push,' the same red hue as the new bruises upon Eisley's sliced knuckles. Every second that passed, every sound of the line as it caught on the dashes between numbers, seemed like another lie to add to the mountain.

The soft, multicolored quilt beneath her depressed with her shifted weight as she rocked back and forth, crying quietly. Downstairs, Carlisle and Esme exchanged hushed words in low tones her ears could not bring into focus. Lost in her rattled mind, Eisley shuddered involuntarily and glanced helplessly around the room for anything she could find comfort in, a place where she could hide from the mantra in her head – _what have I done what have I done what have I done. _

She pushed away from the bed, pulling her sleeves up to her sore elbow joints, and stumbled to the bookshelf stereo. A flick of the ON switch and a radio station buzzed to life, a gravelly-voiced host introducing a hit single by Coldplay. Eisley's breath hitched in her throat as her lungs decompressed and she ceased to inhale – her body relaxed as the lullaby piano of "Fix You" floated into every corner and crevice of the room.

_The tears come streaming down your face when you lose something you can't replace, when you love someone but it goes to waste – could it be worse?_

It was already raining, so no. It couldn't possibly get any worse.

Outside the double French doors, their edges manicured and white, water pounded the glass – little circular drops that slid down the windowpanes and pooled into the wooden grooves, little circular glimmers of the blue evening light of a typical Washington autumn – the forests would swell in this wet season: everything grew in the shower – the rivers, the trees, the pleasantly cool dirt paths blazed by vampires and werewolves and every other wild creature of the supernatural earth – they ran together like watercolors on canvas, and for the short months before dry, snowy winter, everything – every hapless deer, every aging Quileute changeling, every twig and rock and vampire – seemed to _belong_ there, for every white lie, black promise, and boundary line dividing them was blurred by the rain.

Eisley stepped onto her balcony, the wooden planks soft beneath her bare feet.

_Tears streaming down your face, I promise you I will learn from my mistakes. _

Her brown hair darkened as it soaked up rain and clung heavy with water to her cheeks and neck, the open wounds on her knuckles, the sliced indentations of Mel's teeth as they cut through the flesh on impact with her mouth, began to bleed falsely – dried fluids mixed with rain slid from her hands and disappeared between the floorboards.

Piano filtered through the backdrop patter of an evening storm. Every individual fiber of Eisley's jeans dripped with the rain, making them heavy. Her jumper, soaked, clung to her chest and arms, form-fitting to her body. Gone was the weakly structured kid of pre-boxing – her once simply-flat chest had lost its bit of pudge. Unbeknown to her, Eisley's core had become rock-solid and perfectly trimmed with training, her arms still wiry, but reinforced with powerful stems of muscle.

Still, none of it mattered, next to the shame she felt. The rain would erase from the forest every imperfection of past seasons, but it could do nothing for the mistakes she'd made.


	16. His Little Planet

**Author's Note: **htt p : // i114. photobucket . com/ albums/n253/parakletos_** - This is Eisley's bedroom, basically – except that, for the purpose of the story it's a few feet wider, the walls are papered with green paisley, and the bedspread is a multicolored quilt. Also, instead of a another bed along the back wall, there is a balcony with a set of French doors. Also, along the left wall, there is a door that leads to her small bathroom. **

**_Carlisle POV_**

_Should I be as the enraged parent who can't believe their child's done what they've done, punish them to the point they won't even _consider_ doing it again, and then abandon them in their room to wallow in their own shame and disappointment? Should I be calm and understanding, sympathize with the 'why' and the 'how' of what she's done, and let her off – given that this is highly unlike her?_

_Is it my fault? Was I too often unavailable? Did I make her believe she didn't belong here? Was I too blind to see she's still only a child, prone to those troubles in which children always find themselves? She knows what is acceptable and what is not, she knows that I'm furious, and she knows that she's going to be punished. Does she know that I still love her?_

_Did she ever know?_

**_3rd-Person POV_**

Despite his human youth, Carlisle _was_ a centuries-old veteran parent of five teenagers, and yet, such disturbing thoughts whizzed through his head as if they'd only just received the opportunity. He'd experienced everything there was to experience in fatherhood of his children save being witness to their birth. In some respects, they were born again upon his reception of them, as he'd come to understand each of them as individuals, enjoyed watching their little worlds expand and conquer the rational and irrational nodes of their beings. Their family was a beautiful thing, which he loved and cherished.

Of course, with each new addition there were simple issues to work through – the adjustment phase of adoption, the acceptance of either becoming a vampire or joining a coven of them, or both. Every one of them: Edward, Rosalie, Emmett, Alice, and Jasper – they had all gone through this mental torture, Carlisle and Esme suffering alongside, questioning themselves all the way up and down the creek without a paddle.

Sighing, he stepped into the roomy walk-in closet, pulling off his doctor's coat, stiff with dried rain, as he breezed past Esme's rows of colorful sundresses and shiny heels. He unbuttoned his crisp, linen shirt and pressed slacks, yanking the garments away from his appendages in certain frustration before dumping the bundle unceremoniously into an empty hamper. Reaching for a brassy drawer handle, he retrieved a set of traditional 'comfort clothes:' a clean pair of jeans and an old-favorite t-shirt, faded red and silk-screened over with a quote from a 1970s comedy vampire film called _Love at First Bite_, reading 'Children of the Night, Shut Up!'

It was _human_ to wonder if one was doing right by their children, and it was human to think you weren't.

But humans, it seemed to Carlisle, figured it _out_ eventually – how to get all their children on the same page, being brought up the same way, to behave the same way and believe the same things, beginning at birth.

It was different with his children, in that they were hardly _children_ at all, except in the way that they needed someone to lean on.

_But Eisley is a child, and will forever need one. I should not have assumed I could treat her the same as them._

He slumped against an empty section, cupping his palms around the wooden rack for support.

Yes, she needed someone. More than anything in the world, she needed someone. But she was thirteen, hardly through middle school, and not as solidified in her ways as the older crowd she came home to every day.

Still, Carlisle found himself doubting his parenting ability, as most parents do when their kid screws up so badly you think the universe is falling out of the sky. Your little planet, lost somewhere in a spacial oblivion, somehow makes a conscious mistake because they believed it was worth making. Where did you go wrong?

His fingers scraped against the cold light switch, coating the closet in darkness once more.

----

Carlisle rapped twice on the solid door, uncharacteristically surprised when it drifted open, revealing an empty room, darkened to a whitish blue glow in the absence of the sunlight and electricity that usually made it so bright and colorful. Across the room, the double French doors swung open gently in the breeze, water winding along the panes and dripping onto the maple floorboards beneath. Rain lightly pounded the deck outside, which seemed, from his distance, enclosed by pine green trees.

He took a tentative glance around the bedroom, pushing his hands into his pockets. The dresser drawer seemed hastily flung open and dug through – clean shirts and underwear hung limply from its edges. The radio fizzled out a gentle piano tune, something akin to a Vivaldi composition. A gust of wind pushed the doors open further – one of them banged against the green paisley-papered wall, its bolt leaving a dirty skid there.  
He took an unnecessarily deep breath. Everything indicated Eisley had made a break for it, and who knew when she'd gather a hankering grand enough to come back. He turned to leave, to find Esme and tell her he'd be out searching the forest, her usual hangouts, to tell her things shouldn't be this difficult. He wondered briefly if Eisley had even considered the manner in which she'd been behaving, but pairing her with words like 'bad,' or 'lying' just seemed _off_.

Head down at the carpet, suddenly, he saw his shadow, illuminated by a pale light. He pivoted slowly, and there she stood straight and quiet, framed in the rectangular yellow glow of the bathroom door, until a hand reached for the switch and doused the area in the blue autumn pall once again. Still, Carlisle's sharp vampire eyes could focus on every individual frayed fiber of her white socks, the damp stitches of her blue jeans and gray jumper. Her soft brown hair stuck up in odd places and down in others, slick with water. Her eyes, chunks of smoothened jade, suspended above dark-rimmed eyelids in a perfectly doleful expression.

"Eisley."

She bolted to him, crushing her weight against his chest and wrapping her arms about his waist. Though this act of affection, given the context, startled him, he didn't hesitate long enough to reveal his surprise, and pulled her closer to him. Though they were cold, icy creatures by nature, with Eisley pressed close to his stillborn heart he felt the warmth of that familial love, that never-unpleasant transfer of life and what it was worth from one person to another.

For a few moments, no words needed be spoken, though Eisley's throat burned with two most simple, and she couldn't hold them back, though she knew they wouldn't help.

"I'm sorry," she whispered into the thin fabric of his shirt. "I'm so sorry."

It took almost all of Carlisle's resolve to appeal her convictions.

"Sit down, Eisley," he entreated firmly, giving her shoulders an encouraging rub as she pulled away to take a place upon the sunken bed, facing the dripping doors. He watched her fiddle anxiously with the hems of her cotton sleeves before entwining her fingers and placing her hands into her lap, as if she were otherwise uncertain of what they should be doing. Suddenly, Carlisle became aware that she might not understand the gravity of the situation as a whole. Perhaps she'd dug a hole so deep she couldn't recall how many thrusts of the shovel it'd taken to get down that far, how many times she'd had to lie or misbehave to get where she was. Resolved, he approached, pulling a chair swiftly from beneath her desk and placing it before her. On a second thought, he returned to the desk and retrieved a pad of light blue post-it notes and a black Sharpie.

He discarded them next to her on the quilt, and took a seat.

"What's that for?" She questioned hesitantly.

Carlisle gave a pointed gesture to the door behind her. "In a few minutes, Esme's going to come in and we're all going to talk about the past few weeks. Right after you and I have a chat, alright?"

The way he finished seemed like more of a statement than a suggestion, but Eisley nodded slowly, slightly confused as to why he wasn't flying off the handle. Not that it was in his nature to – she'd never seen him even slightly angry prior to tonight, but she'd done such heinous things, such _deeds_ against him, that she'd expected anything _but_ conversation.

Even _wanted _it, wanted it in the way any child just wants a punishment to be over with, even if it means they'll be outcasted, disliked by the parental figure. She'd done such awful things it wouldn't surprise her, not the way Carlisle's plan for an organized round of conversations surprised her.

"Could you just go ahead and do it?"

His brow furrowed and he seemed frustrated. "Do what, Eisley?"

"Punish me."

He leaned back, folding his arms over his chest. "What do you mean by that?" It was an interesting question. He honestly wanted to know. Whatever answer she gave would be definitive of something or other.

"You know," she stammered, deflating. "Yell at me, smack me, just get it over with?"

For a moment, he didn't reply, which only seemed to rattle her further. Slowly, dramatically, he leaned forward, sliding his elbows down his thighs and onto his knees until his face was inches from hers. She drew back as much as she could while failing to suppress her fearful anxiety of what might come next, but all he did was gaze at her, golden eyes locked to green, as in a trance of somber scrutiny.

"What are you worried is going to happen if we just talk?" He whispered conclusively.

"I'm... not. Nothing." she replied with soft uncertainty.

"Have I ever given you any reason to be afraid of me? Have I _ever_ yelled at you, or _hit _you?"

"No, sir," she replied, and he hadn't. Outside of a _spanking _(oh, how she dreaded the term), he'd never hit her. Arguably those actions were one and same, but Eisley knew the difference, having previously tried that argument to get out of trouble.

"We're going to talk," he restated. "And then you, I, and Esme are going to talk. Then we'll get to that, when _I_ decide we're done talking, understand?"

She nodded, knowing what he meant by 'that.'

"Good." He straightened his back. "Start from the beginning." Though he'd gotten a little information from the owner of the gym, Carlisle wanted from Eisley the specifics of the big picture.

She swallowed, unbreathing, and turned her gaze to the ground. _What a mandate. _Not only did the Beginning seem ages ago, so much had happened since... she wasn't certain she could recall all of it. And then again, there was the question of 'what was the _beginning_, exactly?' Was it September 8th, the day she joined the Gym and began to weave the web of lies, or was it nearly three weeks prior, when she stepped out of the basement for the last time, unable to pursue the hooby any further at home? (As many times as she had screwed up since, she wanted desperately to avoid bringing Edward's callousness into the mix of blame, but his caustic demeanor was a stimulant to her deceit.) Carlisle cleared his throat, prompting her to glance up and see his waiting expression. She licked her dry lips.

She went with the former.

"The eighth of September," she whispered, her voice cracking. "After school, I went to the gym and signed up."

"I saw the forms," he nodded. "With my signature on them."

She squeezed her eyes shut and hung her head, upper teeth closing upon her bottom lip. "He required parental consent."

"And you knew I wouldn't give it."

She looked up briefly before deflating again in a silent nod.

"What else did you tell him?"

"Vick?"

"Vick."

"Fake address downtown."

"That all?"

She shrugged helplessly. "I told him I was an orphan with a foster family," she admitted, but that hadn't been a lie.

"So you disobeyed me, forged my signature, and lied twice," he summarized.

She thought for a moment. "Wait – no, just once. I didn't lie twice," she protested.

"Eisley, if you don't know by now that this home and this _family _is something slightly more permanent than a foster situation, then our problems are bigger than boxing. Do you, or do we need to discuss that as well?"

As much as his stern tone stung the ego, Eisley felt her lungs inflate with a warming sense of relief. "I do. But I didn't mean to lie when I said that."

"I believe you." He leaned forward, snatched the pad of post-it notes and the marker from beside her, and scribbled something upon the first thin sheet. Eisley eyed him curiously. He stood, and glanced around the room in search of something. With a little 'ah,' he paced to the desk, and pressed the sticky side of the blue note to its surface, running a thumb over the edges to flatten them.

Looking back, he crooked a finger at his child, and she slid off the bed to step cautiously to his side.

In thick black lines, very plainly scrawled in Carlisle's wonderfully beautiful cursive was written that date, _September 8, _and a list of her wrongs. _Disobedience. Forgery. _She swallowed. _Lying (1). _

After watching her squirm for a few long seconds, Carlisle spoke.

"Before Esme comes in, I want you to have laid out upon this desk every day you went to boxing practice, and every time you lied to me or to Esme about where you would be. All the false theater rehearsals and debate team meets, everything," he ordered.

She looked up, her jade eyes glassy with moisture. It wasn't so much that he was asking a lot of her, but that she wasn't counting on having to face all the problems again, plain as black words on paper. She'd rather take a smacking every night of the week than attempt re-weaving the web of lies.

"Eisley, I'm not trying to send you on a guilt trip," he encouraged, seeing her horrified expression. "But I don't think either of us is fully aware of the severity of what you've done, and you of all people need to know. I can't punish you blindly."

She nodded, a wad of something unpleasant hitched and popped in her throat.

"Fifteen minutes."

He patted her shoulder and made his exit.

Eisley couldn't watch him go, her eyes were glued to the single, square blue sheet fluttering against its sticky restraint upon her desk. Locked in a helpless reverie, she realized her mouth was filling with unabsorbed saliva, and she swallowed it heavily down, wrapped shaky fingers around the arm of the swiveling desk chair, and took a seat.


	17. I'll Look After You

**Author's Note: Unlike a lot of CP stories, I'm not ending this one at the CP chapter – it goes on to include Eisley's resolution with Reuben, and some Edward-Eisley conflict mediation. So don't tune out after this chapter. Oh, and this chapter also has some weird POV things going on, so bear with me. I wanted to encompass both Eisley's personal emotions and the objective 3rd-person view. **

**Oh, and by the way, this _isn't_ the CP chapter. It ran too long – so the next chapter (YES, THE ONE YOU'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR) will be short and all about that CP scene. Oh, and I should be uploading that one later this evening or tonight – it won't take long to write, so you won't have long to hang on this cliff, don't fret. **

Fifteen minutes later, the small desk was completely papered blue. The sticky notes, some bent at the corners or smudged with ink-to-fingers-to-surface transfer, were organized into neat columns and rows, as per Eisley's inflamed sense of order amidst chaos. In an odd, surprising way, laying out her actions of the past month seemed equivalent to unloading a huge weight from her shoulders, except that, now she could see it all, the whole situation seemed slightly more intimidating.

Still, somehow, she felt a relief she couldn't explain. The pressure of all those ugly lies and unspoken words she couldn't say before, now that somebody else knew – even if was her disappointed parents – she was relieved. Not enough to suppress all the anxiety she felt about Carlisle's return, but relieved.

At the top right-hand corner of each note there was a number, corresponding to the each of the dates she'd attended a boxing practice, totaling to ten. And scrawled across each of the ten there was that single, ghastly word – _Lying_, and next to it, a number indicating, as Carlisle had demonstrated, the number of times she'd done so on any given day.

Not wanting to leave anything out (he'd been very specific in ordering _everything_ written down), she shoved some notes apart and squeezed in a few marking times she'd been dishonest about other things related to boxing, including the final maneuver of fooling Esme into driving her to a non-existent debate tournament.

It was almost amusing, thinking back on that last untruth. How stupid a lie – if Esme didn't figure it out Nessie would have told her – she, too, was on the debate team, and no doubt would have confirmed their season was over and had been for quite some time.

Decidedly finished, Eisley pushed the Sharpie across the surface of the desk and slumped upon the bed, the springs whining as they depressed beneath her. The atmosphere seemed suddenly quiet, now free of the squeaky laborings of the permanent marker and devoid of any life besides her own.

The rain outside persisted. Sadly lost in her musings, she explored the darker recesses of her mind – those foreign, cavernous holes she'd dug all month to bury every little guilty emotion or shameful feeling that flared up as she pounded a canvas bag into gravy and absorbed every drop of adrenaline gained from boxing, something she thought she loved more than anything, something she had mistakenly labeled more important than the Truth.

A softly persistent scritch-scratching startled her out of brooding. Beneath the bedroom door, encased in the rectangular extension of white light flooding onto the boards from the hallway, four long, thin columns paced anxiously on the other side. Hamlet pawed at the wood, his trimmed nails pattering like falling rain upon the floorboards. Eisley rose, gave the handle a silent twist. The shaggy brown mutt slipped into the blue room as soon as the doorjamb opened wide enough, leapt deftly upon the bed, and plopped down on his hindquarters. Throwing a cautious glance out into the empty hallway, Eisley quickly shut the door.

"Esme's going to have a fit if she sees you up there," Eisley scolded, sliding into a seating position next to him and petting the areas beneath his crimson collar. He purred gently, leaning into the embrace of her fingers. "You'd better go – you won't like to be in here when they come back."

Hamlet pulled away and nuzzled the soft base of her neck with his warm, moist nose, cerulean eyes glistening with worry. That familiar buzz rang out in the very distant recesses of Eisley's subconscious as it did when she and he connected telepathically in a shared emotion.

"Don't worry, Ham. I'll be fine later. I deserve this."

He whined sadly.

"Cut it out," she ducked into the fluffy fur of his back and wrapped thin around him.

"Eisley Monahan," Esme's voice rang out behind her, startling the wayward child out of the embrace. She blushed. Hamlet, cooperative as ever, flounced off the bed and trotted to sit at Esme's feet. Carlisle stifled a smile and bid him go, a command he obeyed only with a final glance at Eisley, as if to ask her if she wanted him gone, as well. She met his imploring gaze, and nodded sadly, knowing he'd have a fit if he saw what Carlisle no doubt had mind to do.

"Finished?" he shut the door behind the dog and flicked on the lightswitch, bathing the colorful room in a pale white glow.

She hesitated before giving a quick nod and gesturing to the desk.

"Sit," Carlisle ordered as he and Esme paced over and scrutinized the fragmented documents.

Eisley tried not to swallow shamefully when Esme gave that motherly sigh, but failed to suppress her confusion at her and Carlisle's lack of conversation over the matter. They spoke not a word to each other, and though this could be because they'd already discussed what was going to happen here, now, they'd had no more of a clue than Eisley had of the extensiveness of her transgressions. Wasn't _that_ something to talk about? The silence made Eisley more uneasy, if possible.

Somewhat lost in her thoughts, she jumped slightly when the mattress depressed at once and Esme took a comfortable seat beside her.

_**Eisley POV**_

"Feeling okay, honey?" She pressed a hand to my forehead in what I could only assume was a reflexive motherly instinct. Even if I had a fever there'd be no blood rising to my forehead, no heat to indicate any sort of sickness. Could vampires even get sick? I hadn't been one long enough find out, and after today, I wasn't sure I'd get to.

"Heh," I chuckled. "I've been better." Wasn't expecting _that_.

Carlisle, who'd just finished reading, once again pulled the chair around to face me on the bed and took his place in it.

"Were you surprised?" He inquired nonchalantly.

"Not as much as I thought I'd be," I admitted quietly, considering that answering otherwise might be considered an omissive lie of the _truth _that I had known all along I was digging myself one deep shithole, pardon my language. If I was surprised, then it was because I had no idea I could dig that _fast_. "It just...sorta... snowballed."

"Mmhmm," he pressed his lips together. "Eisley, again, the reason I had you do that wasn't to make you uncomfortable, though I'm sure it did, but to help you realize exactly where you screwed up."

I nodded.

"What's the punishment for lying, in this house?"

_He sure wasn't wasting any time. _I swallowed, closing my eyes as my face flushed. "Spanking." My tongue found its way over my dry lips, in some absurd subconscious attempt to lick the ugly aftertaste of that word away.

I knew he could see me squirming, though I was self-consciously imagining every twitchy movement I made was like an earthquake, rocking Esme up and down beside me, and tried not to move.

"And disobedience?"

"Same," I whispered hoarsely.

"How many times did you lie to or disobey myself or Esme?"

I ground my teeth in uncertainty, craning my neck over to paper-covered desk. "More than ten, by my count, sir."

"See, we consider that overkill," he stated in frustrated amusement, leaning back in the chair and folding his arms over his chest.

"Sir?" _That was an abrupt development in the sentencing phase of this conversation_, I thought, especially considering I wholeheartedly deserved every hellish punishment he could dish out. I did!

"Eisley, I'm not a tyrant," he explained, leaning forward again.

"I don't... I don't understand," I protested. Not that I _wanted _that much punishment, but I deserved that and more. "I lied, I disobeyed you, the both of you! I put other peoples' lives in danger, I-I didn't control myself at the fight!"

"Yes, you did all of those things, and I promise, after I'm done with you you'll never consider doing them again, but you need to-"

"But I-" I was _gearing _to say, once more, that I'd been a totally hardheaded little pill and once again contradict his judgment in the matter, which was a mistake. With a speed I'd never even seen fast Edward accomplish, his left hand closed around my shirt collar and pulled me forward a ways. I shut my mouth.

"Listen to me," he warned, pointing a finger at me. "This is not the first time you've gotten into trouble, and last time you did, you also endangered other people, which was your argument for punishment, and always is, and rightly so, but you need to get this through your head, Eisley Martel Monahan-"

He wasn't raising his voice. Carlisle never did. He'd just exhausted every means of getting my attention.

"-that _you_ are what we worried about when we found out where you were. _You _endangered yourself by making yourself vulnerable, by backing yourself into a situation you knew you wouldn't be able to get out of. You could have come to me, or Esme, but you didn't – you waited until the very moment you were most likely to lose control of yourself, and even then, we had to find out what was going on from someone else. Yes, you lied, you disobeyed us, and you put other people's lives in danger, but Eisley, if you haven't realized by now that nobody in this family cares more for 'other people' than they do for you, we've got some other things to discuss."

As much as I could, I averted my eyes to the ground, my head swimming with emotions of shock and shame, and notions I'd been wrong for the wrong reasons. 'Getting into trouble,' in my experience, meant police or criminals or otherwise ugly consequences would be involved. In my decade of being homeless, I'd seen homeless men stabbed and juvenile gangs imprisoned in local jails for crimes far less grievous than mine, and though I'd already forced Carlisle to make the point to me that I was a part of his family now, I guess it didn't stick. How could I have assumed he wouldn't get so angry he'd smack me and leave me alone to wallow in shame? That's how the real world worked.

Should have remembered I wasn't in the real world anymore.

"Do you understand?" He asked evenly.

"Yes, Carlisle," I replied.

"Good." His hand fell from my jumper to his lap.

"Eisley," Esme began, startling me. I'd almost forgotten she was there. "Your father and I already discussed your punishment, and firstly, you're grounded for a month, which, in this house, means no television, no video games, no phone, no going anywhere except school and coming home right afterwards."

I ducked my head and smiled faintly. That didn't sound too much different than my usual routine.

Unfortunately, Carlisle must have noticed my expression of delight, because he continued heaping on.

"And straight to bed at 8:30 every night." There it was, the ultimate restriction. Backing up my bedtime: the one thing about being a trippy dog-venomed vampire I hated – I still had to sleep.

I raised my head, eyes wide. "What? Carlisle, that's way early!" I protested.

"You want to make it two months?"

I exhaled sadly. "No, sir."

Esme rubbed my back in little circles. "It'll be alright, honey – I'll have lots of things around the house you can do to keep yourself occupied. The front gate needs repainting, and the windows could use a good scrubbing..."

I grimaced, knowing that, though she using that playfully teasing voice, she wasn't kidding.

"Guess you know what's coming now." Carlisle gave a sad, encouraging smile.

I nodded.

"Alright. In addition to the spanking you're about to get, I'm going to give you another one every night before bedtime this next week."

My jaw dropped. He pushed my mouth shut with one hand. "They're not going to be rough. Consider them reminders. Fair enough?"

Somehow, I got the impression he really, sincerely, genuinely wouldn't subject me to endure something I didn't think I deserved or didn't understand, and I was grateful, and responded as such.

A final soothing ruffle of my hair and a kiss on the cheek later, Esme rose and Carlisle walked her to the door.


	18. Release in Suffering

Now that all the confusion of this crazy, idiotic situation of mine was organized and the air between Carlisle, Esme, and myself cleared, I had room in my head to be that nervous little kid about to be soundly punished by their unhappy father. Carlisle shut my bedroom door and I slid off my comfortably warm, handmade afghan and onto the chilly wooden floor.

Outside, the weather hadn't changed, which I didn't mind. The rhythmic pattering of rain upon the open French doors and windows was keeping me at least partially distracted and relaxed – I didn't notice Carlisle had disappeared behind the bookshelf until _he _noticed I wasn't behind _him _and beckoned me forward.

I drug my feet, both hands tucked instinctively into my back pockets.

He sat down on the edge of my armless, white leather lounge chair, looking right casual in that faded red t-shirt and dark jeans. My gut sunk more and more as I approached. I dreaded what was coming. I earned it, but I hated it. I loved Carlisle, but I abhorred his spankings. On the plus side, he never used anything besides his hand, (and though that might be because they'd be of no use against vampire skin), on the _down_ side, he didn't _need_ to. He got the point across just fine with his hand, believe me. I was going to feel this today and tomorrow and every night this week. I swallowed, that familiar phantom sensation of moisture pricking at the rims of my eyes.

He pulled me between his legs, gripping my arms gently. "Do you understand why I'm going to spank you?"

He always had to make sure. Ever-patient Carlisle. I nodded, sliding my hands out of my pockets.

"Jeans down."

That command alone almost reduced me to a pleading heap. In the couple times he's had to do this, outside of what he considered a good warning swat, he'd never asked me to do that. This was going to _suck_. Slowly, I unfastened and dropped the denim pants. My long jumper hid most of my thin cotton boxers, but the blue-striped cuffs of them were still visible beneath the gray fabric.

"Thank you for not making me ask you twice," he encouraged, reaching around the back of my ear to give my head an affectionate scratch. I looked up, all these sentimentally familial emotions rising in my head and heart. It hurt to have broken so many rules, and it hurt that I was about to be smacked, and it hurt that I'd been such a hardheaded pill for a whole month, but Carlisle was so good at making hurt go away it hurt the most just thinking I'd disappointed him.

I nodded. He reached beneath my arms and hauled me over his lap like I was a sack of feathers.

_Aaaaaaand, the nervous anxiety is back._

I wrapped my skinny arms around Carlisle's thigh and wriggled a bit in automatic protest of my vulnerable position, but of course, he wasn't having any argument from the me, and I didn't persist.

The first smack landed square on my butt and I yelped, one hand flying back on reflexive impulse.

"Can you keep your hands where they are or do I need to hold you down?"

I had a cleverly ironic retort to that question, but wisely bit it back and removed the appendage.

He continued, peppering my backside with sound swats, and lecturing a bit along the way to reiterate the key points of the previous conversation. I, like a guilty kid, cried quietly into the well-worn denim of his jeans.

_Smack. Smack. Smack. _

I could only consider in utter dismay how familiar this position was becoming. I wasn't a rule-breaking, mischievous child by any means of natural persuasion, but I guess living with the Cullens was such a taboo'ed adventure in itself the lifestyle had begun to rub off on me. Emmett, for sure. He was always so independent. Edward, maybe – he had that motormouth. Rosalie was a bit of a bitch. Jasper and Alice – nah. Bella? No, she was golden. And Nessie – well, Nessie was still just a little kid, but she'd grow. I wondered briefly if Carlisle ever meted out this same punishment to any of my siblings, the mental image of which was utterly ridiculous.

"Ow!" I cried out as he landed an especially hard smack, biting my lip in embarrassment. His left arm tightened around my waist to stifle my antsy squirming, which, I might admit, wasn't completely involuntary.

Abruptly, he paused. I caught my breath. My backside burned painfully. "What's my number one rule?" He inquired, and I just about died – how was I supposed to answer questions in this state?

I choked back invisible tears and took a deep breath to calm my unsteady lungs. "Don-don't put yourself in danger."

"Exactly."

He smacked me again. I cringed.

"What are you going to do next time you find yourself in trouble?"

"Is that a trick questiOW! Tell you or Esme, I'll tell you or Esme," I corrected quickly, squeezing my eyes shut as another swat landed. Satisfied with the Q&A, Carlisle began spanking quicker again.

"Ow, OW! Carlisle, please, I understand, I won't do it again!" I pleaded, switching tactics from stoic to whiny. The thought of having to take another spanking every night for seven days was becoming increasingly unbearable.

"I'm sorry! Ah!" _Smack. Smack. Smack._

"Carlislllllllle..." I whined sadly.

"Hush," he ordered, having had enough of my histrionics. After he'd swatted me a good four or five dozen times, he lifted his knee and began the finish-up - that catch-22 phase of a spanking that you're happy has come because it means it's almost over, but it's always the most awful part – he smacked my sit-spot another few times. Completely drained of all of my usual quiet resolve, I howled and cried like a big baby.

_**3rd-Person POV**_

Giving her time to realize it was over, he lowered his leg slowly and pulled her small body close to his chest, rubbing her back in that soothing way he was accustomed to doing when she was upset about something. Of course, it was his fault she was crying there, but it was her fault she was over his lap. He smiled down at her with a sort of pride that she'd taken it well enough, considering. Gradually, her fingers loosened their grip on the fabric of his jeans – he felt the denim un-bunch in two places, and her sobbing lightened to a quiet, tearless cry.

"Eisley," he whispered, not expecting an answer this time. "I don't want to see you get hurt, especially not by your own idiocy. If that means setting your backside on fire every time you step over that line, I won't hesitate."

By this time, her crying had subsided, mostly, and she simply laid there, breathing slow, heavy breaths.

"And like I told you before, little imp, you're part of this family and as long as you want to be that's not going to change."

She nodded.

Gripping her collar, Carlisle hauled Eisley to her feet and hugging her close. She tucked her arms into his stomach and rested her head upon his shoulder, her small torso still trembling with unspent emotion. Presently, she began to squirm ever-so-slightly. Sensing the reason, Carlisle wrapped one sturdy arm around her shoulders and with the other hand, gently rubbed her burning backside. She tensed at first, understandably, but seemed to relax into the concept of comfort.

"Now," he pushed her away gently, standing and lifting her into his arms, "it's time for bed."

He carried her across the room, placing her on her feet so he could pull the quilts and sheets away from the headboard. She crawled between them and onto her stomach.

Carlisle pulled the desk chair around and took a seat next to her.

"To clarify, again, you're grounded for a month, and you know what that entails."

"Yes, sir," she cringed, a hand snaking back to rub her aching posterior. "How come I have to be grounded, though?"

Carlisle grinned lightly and humored the poor kid. "Well, Eisley, it's always been Esme's style to deal with her children in one way while I handle things another. Initially we had a hard time balancing this _overkill_, as I called it, but the point is, your being grounded is her part, and the spanking was my part, and we've agreed on that. Sort of like... good cop, bad cop," he smiled assuringly.

"Initially?" Eisley questioned mildly.

He saw where that inquiry was headed. "Eisley, I promise you I will never discuss any punishments of yours to any of your siblings without your permission, and I extend the same respect to them. I'll leave it at that."

Eisley pushed herself up on her elbows. "You- you _spank _them?"

He leaned back in playful defense. "You know the consequences of breaking rules in this house, Eisley, they apply to everyone."

"Everyone?"

"Everyone."

"Oh."

There was a pause.

"Even Edward?"

"Eisley Martel, do you want to come back over my knee?"

"No, sir," she replied quickly, and laid back down, crossing her arms beneath her pillow. "Carlisle?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry."

He smiled sadly. "I know. Never again."

"Never again," she agreed.

A knock resounded on the door. Carlisle looked up.


End file.
